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Fedalma 


Photogravure.  —  From  Painting  by  George  Fuller 


v 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2019  with  funding  from 
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I 


Cbttum  be  Utixe 


Complete  Poems 

Scenes  of  Clerical  Life 


iNflKen 


GHr )t  £.  W.  pramarb 
$ublistfjtng  Co. 

Boston  &t to  |9o 


EDITION  BE  LUXE 

This  edition  of  the  works  of 
George  Eliot,  printed  for 


SUBSCRIBERS  ONLY,  IS  LIMITED  TO  ONE 
THOUSAND  NUMBERED  SETS,  OF 


WHICH  THIS  IS 


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Co  ©ear 

EVERY  DAY  DEARER*. 

HUSBAND. 


-2 


CONTENTS 


- »o+ - 

Page 

George  Eliot  as  a  Poet . ,  .  .  7 

The  Spanish  Gypsy.  Book  1 . 21 

The  Spanish  Gypsy.  Book  II.  .....  *  ....  139 

The  Spanish  Gypsy.  Book  III . 185 

The  Spanish  Gypsy.  Book  IV . 233 

The  Spanish  Gypsy.  Book  V . 269 

The  Legend  of  Jubal . 283 

Agatha . 307 

Armgart . 320 

How  Lisa  loved  the  King . 361 

A  Minor  Prophet . 381 

Brother  and  Sister . 391 

Stradivarius . . 398 

A  College  Breakfast-Party . 403 

Two  Lovers . 428 

Self  and  Life . 430 

“  Sweet  Evenings  come  and  go,  Love  ” . 433 

The  Death  of  Moses . ‘434 

Arion . 438 

“ Oh,  may  I  join  the  Choir  invisible” . 441 


' 

✓ 

. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


POEMS. 


Page 

I  edalma . Frontispiece 

Portrait  of  George  Eliot . 12 

“  A  figure  litlie,  all  white  and  saffron  robed, 

Flashed  right  across  the  circle  ” . 65 

“Fedalma  entered,  cast  away  the  cloud 


Of  serge  and  linen,  and,  outbeaming  bright, 

Advanced  a  pace  towards  Silva  ” . 83 

“  My  father  ....  comes  ....  my  father  ” . 118 

“  His  doublet  loose,  his  right  arm  backward  flung, 

His  left  caressing  close  the  long-necked  lute  ”  .  .  .  .  181T 

“  Ay,  ’t  is  a  sword 

That  parts  the  Spanish  noble  and  the  true  Zincala  ”  .  .  218 

“  He  sought  the  screen 

Of  thornv  thickets,  and  there  fell  unseen  ”  .  .  ,  .  .  304 

c<  Armgart,  dear  Armgart,  only  speak  to  me”  ....  342 

Two  lovers  by  a  moss-grown  spring  ” . 428 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


Shepperton  Church .  .  .  52 

Shepperton  Village  .  150 


Janet  at  Mrs  Pettifer’s  Door . 220 


GEORGE  ELIOT  AS  A  POET. 


(From  the  Contemporary  Review ,  vol.  viii.  p.  397.) 

As  if  a  strong,  delightful  water  that  we  knew  only  as  a  riveT 
appeared  in  the  character  of  a  fountain ;  as  if  one  whom  we 
had  wondered  at  as  a  good  walker  or  inexhaustible  pedes¬ 
trian,  began  to  dance ;  as  if  Mr.  Bright,  in  the  middle  of  a 
public  meeting,  were  to  oblige  the  company  with  a  song,  — 
no,  no,  not  like  that  exactly,  but  like  something  quite  new,  — 
is  the  appearance  of  George  Eliot  in  the  character  of  a  poet. 
“  The  Spanish  Gypsy,”  a  poem  in  five  books,  originally  writ¬ 
ten,  as  a  prefatory  note  informs  us,  in  the  winter  of  1864-65, 
and,  after  a  visit  to  Spain  in  1867,  re-written  and  amplified, 
is  before  us.  It  is  a  great  volume  of  three  hundred  and  fifty 
octavo  pages ;  and  the  first  thing  which  strikes  the  reader  is, 
that  it  is  a  good  deal  longer  than  he  expected  it  would  be. 
This  is  bad,  to  begin  with.  What  right  has  anybody  to  make 
a  poem  longer  than  one  expected  ?  The  next  thing  that 
strikes  one  is,  —  at  all  events,  the  next  thing  that  struck  me 
was,  as  I  very  hastily  turned  over  the  book,  —  that  the  fine 
largo  of  the  author’s  manner,  continued  through  so  many 
pages,  was  a  very  little  burdensome  in  its  effect.  That  may 
come  of  the  specific  levity  of  my  taste ;  but  it  is  as  well  to 
be  quite  frank. 

Dr.  Holmes,  of  Boston,  says,  —  I  fear  I  am  repeating  my¬ 
self,  as  he  did  with  his  illustration  of  the  alighting  huma,— 

1 


2 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


that  a  poem  is  like  a  violin  in  the  respect  that  it  needs  to  be 
kept  and  used  a  good  deal  before  you  know  what  music  there 
is  in  it.  If  that  is  so,  what  may  here  be  said  of  George 
Eliot’s  poem  will  have  but  littlf  value ;  for  the  book  has  only 
been  in  my  hand  a  few  days,  at  a  time  when  my  preoccupa¬ 
tion  is  great,  and  reading  is  painful  to  me.  But,  in  the  first 
place,  I  do  really  think  my  hasty  impressions  are  correct  in 
this  case ;  and,  in  the  second,  I  shall  find  some  way  of  re¬ 
turning  to  the  book,  if  after  very  often-repeated  readings 
(according  to  my  habit)  I  alter  any  of  my  opinions. 

In  the  Argosy  I  once  gave  reasons  for  looking  forward  with 
deep  interest  to  anything  George  Eliot  might  do  in  the  shape 
of  poetry,  and  also  hinted  the  direction  in  which  her  risk  of 
greater  or  less  failure  appeared  to  me  to  lie.  “You  can  never 
reckon  up  these  high-strung  natures,  ever  ready  to  be  re-im¬ 
pregnated,”  or  tell  what  surprises  they  may  have  in  store  for 
you.  It  had  often  struck  me  that  there  was  a  vein  of  poetic 
expression  in  the  writing  of  George  Eliot,  of  which  a  hundred 
instances  might  have  been  given.  But  the  question  of  ques¬ 
tions  remained :  Had  she  such  a  power,  not  to  say  necessity, 
of  spontaneous  expression  in  verse,  that  when  we  saw  her 
poetry  we  should  inevitably  say,  as  Milton  said  of  himself, 
that  the  expression  in  verse  was  the  right-hand  speech,  that 
in  prose  the  left-hand  speech  ?  How  fine  are  the  shades  or 
gradations  of  quality  in  this  respect,  can  be  little  understood 
by  those  who  have  not,  by  instinct  or  otherwise,  fed,  so  to 
speak,  on  verse.  For  example,  we  all  know  that  Wordsworth 
often  wrote,  in  the  printed  form  of  verse,  the  most  utterly 
detestable  prose.  Yet  he  could  and  did  produce  most  exqui¬ 
site  verse.  Again,  a  living  poet  of  the  school  of  Wordsworth, 
Mr.  Henry  Taylor,  barely,  or  little  better  than  barely,  enables 
us  to  say  of  him  that  verse  is  his  right-hand  and  prose  his 
left.  Still,  after  some  little  demur,  we  are  able  to  say  it; 
and  we  call  him  a  poet. 


GEOKUE  ELIOT  AS  A  POET.  & 

# 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  this  is  by  any  means  a  matter 
of  mere  fluency,  correctness,  or  ease  of  numbers.  Macaulay 
wrote  verses  far  superior  in  these  particulars  to  many  of  Mr. 
Henry  Taylor’s  and  many  of  Wordsworth’s.  Yet  verse  was, 
unequivocally,  Macaulay’s  left-hand;  and  after  adolescence, 
few  people  can  read  his  verse  for  poetry.  If  I  were  not  un¬ 
willing  to  rouse  the  prejudice  of  (I  fear !)  most  of  my  read¬ 
ers,  I  should  here  add  Edgar  Poe ;  and,  indeed,  I  really  can¬ 
not  spare  him  as  an  illustration.  He  must  have  some  queer 
hybrid  place,  all  to  himself  (which  it  would  take  an  essay  to 
define) ;  but  though  he  may  be  said  to  have  felt  verse  his 
right-hand  medium  of  expression,  some  few  of  us  hesitate  to 
call  him  a  poet.  Not  to  complicate  this  matter,  let  us  come  at 
once  to  the  point.  What  is  it  that  in  excellent  verse  differen¬ 
tiates  1  that  which  is  poetry  and  that  which  is  not  ?  Not  mere 
fluency,  but  unconscious  fluency;  in  a  word,  simplicity. 
Whatever  art  may  do  for  the  poet,  he  must  be  a  simple  musi¬ 
cian  to  begin  with. 

In  looking  rapidly  over  this  poem  of  George  Eliot’s  I  have 
—  let  me  confess  it  —  I  have  been  inclined  to  fear  that  this 
“note”  of  simplicity  is  wanting.  And,  in  spite  of  an  abun¬ 
dance  of  fine  passages,  I  fear,  also,  there  is  not  the  perfect 
fluency  of  use  and  wont.  It  has  been  maintained,  under  shel¬ 
ter  of  Elizabethan  models,  that  you  may  do  almost  anything 
in  dramatic  blank  verse,  in  the  way  of  lengthening  and  short¬ 
ening  the  line.  I  object  to  the  doctrine,  and  maintain  that 
the  Elizabethan  examples  cited  are,  in  many  instances,  mere 
bits  of  negligence ;  and,  in  others,  roughnesses  of  workmanship 
belonging  to  the  lusty  youth  of  a  new  art.  Blank  verse  means 
ten-syllable  iambic  lines.  If  there  are  deviations  from  this 
form,  as  there  often  are,  and  should  be,  they  must  be  regu¬ 
lated  deviations,  not  accidental  intrusions  of  other  forms.  .  .  . 

1  I  have  seen  this  word  objected  to  as  a  scientific  foppery  ;  but  in  its  form 
of  to  difference,  the  verb  is  a  good  old  English  verb. 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


4 

The  versification  of  “  The  Spanish  Gypsy  ”  often  breaks  out 
into  the  very  highest  excellence ;  but  it  too  often  wants  spon¬ 
taneity  and  simplicity. 

As  the  same  observation  applies  to  the  lyrics,  one  has  little 
hesitation  in  coming  to  the  conclusion  that  the  primal  pecu¬ 
liarity  which  distinguishes  the  singer  from  the  sayer  is  either 
lacking  in  George  Eliot  or  that  its  function  has  suffered  from 
disuse.  I  still  hesitate  to  say  suffered  irreparably,  because 
I  still  think  the  orbit  of  a  genius  like  George  Eliot’s  incal¬ 
culable.  With  such  a  noble  ambition,  and  such  immense 
resources,  one  may  do  almost  anything.  Thus,  though  I 
confess  I  now  think  it  improbable  that  George  Eliot  will  ever 
exhibit  in  a  poem  the  true  simplicity  of  the  singer,  and  compel 
her  readers  to  admit  that  her  music  is  better  than  her  speech, 
I  hesitate,  or  well-nigh  hesitate,  in  saying  even  so  much  as 
that.  It  is  very  pathetic  that  a  noble  ambition  should  come 
so  near  its  mark  and  yet  fail.  Only  what  are  we  to  do  ?  The 
truth  must  be  spoken. 

Against  the  presumption  raised  by  the  bulk  of  the  writing 
must,  in  fairness,  be  set  the  evidence  of  particular  passages, 
in  which  the  author  attains  such  high  excellence  that  if  one 
had  seen  those  passages  alone,  there  would  have  been  no 
hesitation  or  doubt  on  the  score  of  melody.  A  few  of  these, 
in  some  of  which  the  reader  will  catch  fine  touches  of  Eliza¬ 
bethan  inspiration,  I  will  pick  out  of  the  mass. 

Take,  for  an  example,  this  description  of  Zarca :  — 

“  He  is  of  those 

Who  steal  the  keys  from  snoring  Destiny 
And  make  the  prophets  lie.” 

And  this :  — 

“  My  vagabonds  are  a  seed  more  generoiw, 

Quick  as  the  serpent,  loving  as  the  hound, 

And  beautiful  as  disinherited  gods. 

They  have  a  promised  land  beyond  the  sea.” 


GEORGE  ELIOT  AS  A  POET. 


6 


And  this :  — 

“  Spring  afternoons,  when  delicate  shadows  fall 
Pencilled  upon  the  grass ;  high  summer  morna 
When  white  light  rains  upon  the  quiet  sea 
And  corn-fields  flush  with  ripeness.” 

And  this :  — 

“  Present  and  silent  and  unchangeable 
As  a  celestial  portent.” 

Lastly,  the  best  lyric  in  the  poem :  — 

“  The  world  is  great :  the  birds  all  fly  from  me, 

The  stars  are  golden  fruit  upon  a  tree 
All  out  of  reach :  my  little  sister  went. 

And  I  am  lonely. 

u  The  world  is  great :  I  tried  to  mount  the  hill 
Above  the  pines,  where  the  light  lies  so  still. 

But  it  rose  higher :  little  Lisa  went. 

And  I  am  lonely. 

**  The  world  is  great :  the  wind  comes  rushing  by, 

I  wonder  where  it  comes  from ;  sea-birds  cry 
And  hurt  my  heart ;  my  little  sister  went, 

And  I  am  lonely. 

"  The  world  is  great :  the  people  laugh  and  talk. 

And  make  loud  holiday :  how  fast  they  walk ! 

I  ’m  lame,  they  push  me  :  little  Lisa  went, 

And  I  am  lonely.” 

Besides  the  want  of  spontaneity  and  simplicity  in  the 
verse,  there  are  other  points  which  make  us  feel,  with  what¬ 
ever  reluctance  to  admit  the  thing  we  undoubtingly  see,  that 
in  “  The  Spanish  Gypsy  ”  something  is  wanting,  and  in  that 
something  everything  that  endears  a  poem  as  a  poem.  The 
writing  has  the  diffuseness  of  literature  rather  than  the  con¬ 
densation  of  poetry;  and,  admirable  as  some  of  it  is,  we  wish 
it  away  :  at  the  lowest,  we  say  to  ourselves,  if  a  poet  had  had 


6 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ‘  ELIOT. 


to  utter  this,  our  pleasure  would  have  been  perfect  j  but,  as  it 
is,  what  is  before  us  is  almost  too  good,  and  yet  it  is  not  good 
enough  ;  it  does  not  compel  us  to  think,  le  poete  a  le  frisson , 
either  while  we  read  or  afterwards.  There  is  too  much 
aggregation  and  accumulation  about  it ;  we  are  set  thinking, 
and  set  feeling ;  we  are  agitated ;  but  we  are  not  thrilled  by 
any  single  sudden  notes.  Lastly,  or  all  but  lastly,  some  of 
the  frequent  touches  of  humorous  detail  are  fatal :  — 

“  Enter  the  Duke,  Pablo,  and  Annibal, 

Exit  the  cat,  retreating  towards  the  dark.” 

This,  and  all  this  kind  of  thing,  is  gravely  wrong  in  a  poem. 
In  some  cases  the  phraseology  has  this  species  of  modern 
familiarity  and  curtness ;  in  others,  the  equally  distinguish¬ 
able  largo  of  the  modern  philosophic  manner,  while  what  is 
supremely  needed,  namely,  finish,  is  what  we  in  vain  go 
longing  for. 

Finally,  the  intellectual  groundwork,  or  outline,  of  the  poem 
shows  far  too  plainly  under  the  coloring  of  passion  and  the 
movement  of  the  story.  Since  “  Silas  Marner”  we  have  had 
no  book  from  George  Eliot  to  which  this  criticism  would  not, 
in  some  degree,  be  applicable.  There  is  not  room  here  for 
any  exhibition  of  all  the  recurring  ideas  of  George  Eliot’s 
writings,  but  one  in  particular  has  been  growing  more  and 
more  prominent  since  “  Silas  Marner,”  and  of  which  the  first 
hint  is  in  “  The  Mill  on  the  Floss.”  “  If  the  past  is  not  to 
bind  us,”  said  Maggie  Tulliver,  in  answer  to  the  importu¬ 
nities  of  Stephen  Guest,  “what  is?”  In  a  noticeable  and 
well-remembered  review  of  Mr.  Lecky’s  “  History  of  Ration¬ 
alism,”  George  Eliot  told  us  that  the  best  part  of  our  lives 
was  made  up  of  organized  traditions  (I  quote  from  memory, 
but  the  meaning  was  plain).  Putting  these  two  things  to¬ 
gether,  we  get  the  intellectual  ground-plan  of  “The  Spanish 
Gypsy.”  Perhaps  the  illustrious  author  of  the  poem  would 
resent  the  idea  that  any  moral  was  intended  to  be  conveyed 


GEORGE  ELIOT  AS  A  POET. 


? 


by  her  recent  writings ;  but,  assuredly,  this  moral  is  thrust 
upon  us  everywhere,  in  a  way  which  implies,  if  not  intention, 
very  eager  belief. 

Leaving  the  workmanship  and  the  intellectual  conception, 
or  interwoven  moral  criticism,  of  the  poem,  and  coming  to 
the  story,  I  am  sure  of  only  echoing  what  all  the  world  will 
say  when  I  call  this  in  the  highest  degree  poetic ;  and  poeti¬ 
cally  dramatic,  too.  I  must  add,  and  with  emphasis,  that 
the  story  seems  to  me  to  gain,  as  a  story,  by  this  mode  of  • 
presentation,  —  as  I  firmly  believe  “Romola”  would  have 
gained,  if  the  question  of  perfect  poetic  expression  could 
have  been  got  over.  In  other  words,  although  the  manner 
of  the  novelist  too  often  obtrudes  itself  in  “The  Spanish 
Gypsy,”  the  author  has  told  the  story  more  affectingly,  and 
with  much  more  of  truthfulness  and  local  color  and  manner, 
than  she  would  have  done  if  she  had  been  writing  it  as  a 
novel.  Compare,  for  example,  what  I  think  are  among  the 
very  finest  things  George  Eliot  has  ever  done,  —  the  scene 
between  Juan  the  troubadour  and  the  Gypsy  girls,  at  the 
opening  of  Book  III.,  and  the  scene  in  which  Don  Amador 
reads  to  the  retainers  of  Don  Silva  from  “Las  Siete  Par- 
tidas”  the  passage  beginning,  “Et  esta  gentileza  aviene  en 
tres  maneras  ”  (the  critical  reader  who  stumbles  at  the  “  et  ” 
must  be  informed  that  this  is  thirteenth-century  Spanish),  — 
compare  these  two  scenes,  I  say,  with  the  first  scene  in  the 
barber’s  shop,  and  the  scene  of  the  Florentine  joke,  in  “Ro¬ 
mola,”  and  note  how  very  much  the  author  gains  by  assuming 
the  dramatic  form.  I  have  heard  readers  of  much  critical 
ability,  and  much  poetic  and  dramatic  instinct,  too,  complain 
that  they  did  not  see  the  force  of  those  scenes  in  “  Romola ;  ” 
but  it  must  be  an  incredibly  dull  person  that  misses  the  force 
of  those  scenes  in  “  The  Spanish  Gypsy.”  The  love-passages, 
also,  are  exquisitely  beautiful ;  and  in  them  again  the  author 
has  gained  by  using  the  dramatic  form.  I  dare  to  add  that 


8 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELlOT. 


she  has,  however,  lost  by  some  of  the  (so  to  speak)  u  stage- 
directions.”  We  don’t  want  to  be  told  how  a  man  and  woman 
of  tme  type  of  Don  Silva  and  Fedalma1  look  when  they  are 
saying  certain  things.  We  can  feel  pretty  sure  when  the 
mornant  would  be  too  sweet  and  solemn  even  for  kissing. 
As  Sam  Slick  said,  “Natur’  teaches  that  air.” 

The  story  of  “  The  Spanish  Gypsy  ”  is  simply  this :  Fe¬ 
dalma,  a  Zincala,  is  lost  in  her  early  childhood,  and  brought 
up  by  a  Spanish  duchess,  Don  Silva’s  mother.  As  she  grows 
to  womanhood  Silva  loves  her,  and  she  is  on  the  point  of 
marrying  him  when  the  narrative  opens.  But  Fedalma’s 
father,  Zarca,  a  Gypsy  Moses,  Hiawatha,  or  both,  devoted 
to  the  regeneration  of  his  tribe,  suddenly  appears  upon  the 
scene  and  claims  his  daughter.  Will  she  marry  Don  Silva,  or 
go  with  her  father  and  be  the  priestess  of  a  new  faith  to  the 
Zincali  ?  She  decides  to  accompany  her  father.  Upon  this 
Silva  renounces  his  position  as  a  Spanish  noble  and  Christian 
knight  and  becomes  a  Zincalo.  This  implies  the  relinquish¬ 
ment  of  his  post  as  commander  of  the  town  and  fortress  of 
Bedm&r,  which  it  is  his  duty  to  guard  against  the  Moors ; 
but  he  is  not  aware,  at  the  time  he  takes  the  Gypsy  oath,  that 
Zarca  is  already  in  league  with  the  Moors  to  take  the  for¬ 
tress.  Zarca  and  the  Moors,  however,  succeed  in  investing 
the  place,  and  some  'noble  Spaniards,  friends  of  Silva’s,  in¬ 
cluding  his  uncle,  Father  Isidor,  are  slain.  Mad  with  remorse 
and  rage,  Silva  stabs  Zarca,  but  is  allowed  to  go  free.  The 
poem  closes  with  the  departure  of  Silva  to  obtain  absolution 
from  the  Pope,  in  order  that  he  may  recommence  the  career 
of  a  Christian  knight,  and  the  departure  of  Fedalma  to  be¬ 
gin,  as  best  she  may,  the  work  bequeathed  to  her  by  her 
father,  namely,  the  regeneration  of  the  Zincali. 

1  I  do  not  remember  having  ever  seen  this  name  before ;  it  is  an  exqui 
sitely  musical  word,  and,  I  suppose,  is  intended  to  mean  Faith  of  the  Soul, 
or,  more  intelligibly  to  svme  people  (not  to  be  envied).  Spiritual  Fidelity. 


GEORGE  ELIOT  AS  A  POET. 


One  thing  is  obvious  on  the  face  of  this  story, — that  Silva 
was  guilty,  in  so  far  as  he  was  an  apostate.  But  there  will 
not  be  wanting  readers  who  when  asking  the  question  who 
was  the  cause  of  all  the  misery  with  which  the  narrative 
overflows,  will  say,  Fedalma.  It  was  all  very  well  to  say 
that  her  past  bound  her.  But  which  past  ?  When  Zarca 
started  up,  she  was  pledged  by  her  “  past  ”  to  Silva,  and  she 
loved  him.  What  Zarca  imported  into  the  situation  was,  as 
lawyers  say,  new  matter.  The  morrow  would  have  seen  her 
married  to  Silva ;  and  what  then ,  if  Zarca  had  appeared  upon 
the  stage  with  his  Gypsy  patriotism  ?  All  the  future  was 
dark  to  her,  there  was  no  reason  whatever  to  believe  that 
either  she  or  Zarca  would  be  able  to  regenerate  the  Gypsies  ; 
there  was  present  actual  proof  that  she  was  essential  to  Silva, 
life  of  his  life,  and  the  bond  of  his  being.  What  right  had 
she  to  forsake  him  ?  It  is  idle  to  discuss  this,  but  since,  as 
far  as  I  can  make  out,  there  is  distinct  teaching  in  the  poem, 
and  that  teaching  is  of  no  force  unless  Fedalma  was,  beyond 
question ,  right,  it  is  perfectly  fair  and  appropriate  to  suggest 
that  there  is  room  for  question.  It  seems  to  me  a  little 
curious  that  George  Eliot  does  not  see  that  the  same  reason 
which  made  Sephardo,  the  astrologer,  a  son  first  and  a  Jew 
afterwards,  would  make  Fedalma  a  betrothed  woman  first 
and  a  Zincala  next. 

But  I  do  not  dwell  upon  this  point,  because  I  look  forward 
to  another  opportunity  of  dealing  with  what  we  are  now 
entitled  to  assume  is  George  Eliot’s  evangel, — 

“ .  .  .  .  that  Supreme,  the  irreversible  Past.” 

Irreversible,  no  doubt,  but  —  “  Supreme  !  ”  The  reader  must 
not  imagine  that  I  am  darting  captiously  at  a  word  here. 
Not  at  all.  George  Eliot  has  a  very  distinct  meaning,  which 
is  very  distinctly  affiliated  to  a  certain  mode  of  thought.  To 
this  mode  of  thought  may  be  traced  the  astounding  discords 


10 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


of  her  late  writings,  or  rather  the  one  astounding  discord 
which  runs  through  them. 

In  submitting  to  the  world  a  poem,  George  Eliot  is  under 
one  serious  disadvantage.  There  are  certain  particulars  in 
which  she  is  not  likely,  in  verse,  to  excel  her  own  prose. 
Clear  and  profound  conception,  and  emphatic,  luminous,  and 
affecting  presentation  of  character,  is  one  of  them.  The 
power  of  inventing  dramatic  situation  is  another.  In  these 
particulars  “  The  Spanish  Gypsy  ”  falls  behind  nothing  that 
this  distinguished  writer  has  done ;  though  I  do  not  myself 
feel  that  either  Eedalma  or  Zarca  is  dramatically  presented 
to  us.  Indeed,  vivid  as  George  Eliot’s  painting  of  character 
always  is,  and  profoundly  intelligent,  I  never  thought  it 
lramatic.  Nor  is  it.  Here,  as  in  the  other  books  of  George 
Eliot,  character  is  always  most  vividly  described  and  ana¬ 
lyzed  ;  and  what  the  people  do  is,  of  course,  in  exact  accord¬ 
ance  with  what  is  described ;  but  none  of  them  reveal  them¬ 
selves  without  having  had  the  advantage  of  some  criticism. 
None  of  them,  that  is  to  say,  reveal  themselves  by  action 
only,  or  by  action  and  speech  only,  unless  the  speech  takes 
a  critical  form.  Zarca  is  shadowy,  and  Eedalma  shadowy. 
But  Juan  and  Silva  we  understand  well  because  they  are 
criticised ;  and  Isidor  the  prior,  and  Sephardo  the  Jew,  we 
understand  well,  because  their  talk  is  criticism  of  a  kind 
which  only  a  certain  order  of  mind  could  produce.  Perhaps 
the  finest  portions  of  the  poem  lie  in  some  of  these  critical 
or  quasi-critical  passages.  Let  us  take  “The  Astrologer’s 
Study  ” :  — 

“A  room  high  up  in  Abderahman’s  tower, 

A  window  open  to  the  still  warm  eve, 

And  the  bright  disk  of  royal  Jupiter. 

Lamps  burning  low  make  little  atmospheres 
Of  light  amid  the  dimness;  here  and  there 
Show  books  and  phials,  stones  and  instruments, 
in  carved  dark-oaken  chair,  unpillowed,  sleeps 


GEORGE  ELIOT  AS  A  POET. 


11 


Right  in  the  rays  of  J upiter  a  small  man, 

In  skull-cap  bordered  close  with  crisp  gray  curls, 

And  loose  black  gown  showing  a  neck  and  breast 
Protected  by  a  dim-green  amulet ; 

Pale-faced,  with  finest  nostril  wont  to  breathe 
Ethereal  passion  in  a  world  of  thought ; 

Eyebrows  jet-black  and  firm,  yet  delicate ; 

Beard  scant  and  grizzled ;  mouth  shut  firm,  with  curves 
So  subtly  turned  to  meanings  exquisite, 

You  seem  to  read  them  as  you  read  a  word 
Full-vo welled,  long-descended,  pregnant,  —  rich 
With  legacies  from  long,  laborious  lives.” 

Juan’s  criticism  of  himself :  — 

“  I  can  unleash  my  fancy  if  you  wish 
And  hunt  for  phantoms :  shoot  an  airy  guess 
And  bring  down  airy  likelihood,  —  some  lie 
Masked  cunningly  to  look  like  royal  truth 
And  cheat  the  shooter,  while  King  Fact  goes  free, 

Or  else  some  image  of  reality 

That  doubt  will  handle  and  reject  as  false. 

Ask  for  conjecture,  —  I  can  thread  the  sky 
Like  any  swallow,  but,  if  you  insist 
On  knowledge  that  would  guide  a  pair  of  feet 
Right  to  Bedmar,  across  the  Moorish  bounds, 

A  mule  that  dreams  of  stumbling  over  stones 
Is  better  stored.” 

And,  assuredly,  I  must  not  omit  the  study  of  the  character  of 
Silva  himself :  — 

“  A  man  of  high-wrought  strain,  fastidious 
In  his  acceptance,  dreading  all  delight 
That  speedy  dies  and  turns  to  carrion : 

His  senses  much  exacting,  deep  instilled 
With  keen  imagination's  difficult  needs ;  — 

Like  strong-limbed  monsters  studded  o’er  with  eye§, 

Their  hunger  checked  by  overwhelming  vision, 

Or  that  fierce  lion  in  symbolic  dream 

Snatched  from  the  ground  by  wings  and  new-endowed 

With  ?  man’s  thought-propelled  relenting  heart. 


12 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Silva  was  both  the  lion  and  the  man ; 

First  hesitating  shrank,  then  fiercely  sprang, 

Or  having  sprung,  turned  pallid  at  his  deed 
And  loosed  the  prize,  paying  his  blood  for  naught. 

A  nature  half-transformed,  with  qualities 

That  oft  bewrayed  each  other,  elements 

Not  blent  but  struggling,  breeding  strange  effect*, 

Passing  the  reckoning  of  his  friends  or  foes. 

Haughty  and  generous,  grave  and  passionate; 

With  tidal  moments  of  devoutest  awe. 

Sinking  anon  to  farthest  ebb  of  doubt ; 

Deliberating  ever,  till  the  sting 
Of  a  recurrent  ardor  made  him  rush 
Right  against  reasons  that  himself  had  drilled 
And  marshalled  painfully.  A  spirit  framed 
Too  proudly  special  for  obedience. 

Too  subtly  pondering  for  mastery : 

Born  of  a  goddess  with  a  mortal  sire, 

Heir  of  flesh-fettered,  weak  divinity, 

Doom-gifted  with  long  resonant  consciousness 
And  perilous  heightening  of  the  sentient  soul. 

But  look  less  curiously :  life  itself 
May  not  express  us  all,  may  leave  the  worst 
And  the  best  too,  like  tunes  in  mechanism 
Never  awaked.  In  various  catalogues 
Objects  stand  variously.” 

There  is  only  one  living  mind  which  could  have  given  us 
poetico-psychological  studies  of  human  character  like  these. 
There  is  no  comparison  in  range  of  faculty  between  such  a 
mind  and  John  Clare’s.  Is  it  not  strange,  and  almost  pa¬ 
thetic,  that  an  uncultivated  peasant  could  sing,  and  touch  us 
with  music,  as  no  speech  could ;  and  yet  that  a  highly  culti¬ 
vated  mind  like  George  Eliot’s  should  almost  overwhelm  our 
judgment  by  the  richness  and  volume  of  what  it  pours  forth 
in  the  name  of  song ;  and  yet  that  we  are  compelled  to  say 
the  bird-note  is  missing  ? 


Matthew  Browne. 


Portrait  of  George  Eliot 


EXTRACTS  FROM  GEORGE  ELIOT’S  LIFE. 


Edited  by  J.  W.  CROSS. 


«•* 


Among  my  wife’s  papers  were  four  or  five  pages  of  manu¬ 
script  headed  “Notes  on  the  Spanish  Gypsy  and  Tragedy  in 
General.”  There  is  no  evidence  as  to  the  date  at  which  this 
fragment  was  written,  and  it  seems  to  have  been  left  unfin¬ 
ished.  But  there  was  evidently  some  care  to  preserve  it ;  and 
as  I  think  she  would  not  have  objected  to  its  presentation,  I 
give  it  here  exactly  as  it  stands.  It  completes  the  history  of 
the  poem. 

“The  subject  of  ‘The  Spanish  Gypsy’  was  originally  sug¬ 
gested  to  me  by  a  picture  which  hangs  in  the  Scuola  di’  San 
Rocco  at  Venice,  over  the  door  of  the  large  Sala  containing 
Tintoretto’s  frescos.  It  is  an  Annunciation,  said  to  be  by 
Titian.  Of  course  I  had  seen  numerous  pictures  of  this 
subject  before ;  and  the  subject  had  always  attracted  me. 
But  in  this  my  second  visit  to  the  Scuola  di’  San  Rocco,  this 
small  picture  of  Titian’s,  pointed  out  to  me  for  the  first  time, 
brought  a  new  train  of  thought.  It  occurred  to  me  that  here 
was  a  great  dramatic  motive  of  the  same  class  as  those  used 
by  the  Greek  dramatists,  yet  specifically  differing  from  them. 
A  young  maiden,  believing  herself  to  be  on  the  eve  of  the 
chief  event  of  her  life,  —  marriage,  —  about  to  share  in  the 
ordinary  lot  of  womanhood,  full  of  young  hope,  has  suddenly 
announced  to  her  that  she  is  chosen  to  fulfil  a  great  destiny, 


14  EXTRACTS  FRO  1.1  GEORGE  ELIOT'S  LIFE. 


entailing  a  terribly  different  experience  from  that  of  ordinary 
womanhood.  She  is  chosen,  not  by  any  momentary  arbitrari¬ 
ness,  but  as  a  result  of  foregoing  hereditary  conditions :  she 
obeys.  ‘Behold  the  handmaid  of  the  Lord.’  Here,  I  thought, 
is  a  subject  grander  than  that  of  Iphigenia,  and  it  has  never 
been  used.  I  came  home  with  this  in  my  mind,  meaning  to 
give  the  motive  a  clothing  in  some  suitable  set  of  historical 
and  local  conditions.  My  reflections  brought  me  nothing  that 
would  serve  me,  except  that  moment  in  Spanish  history  when 
the  struggle  with  the  Moors  was  attaining  its  climax,  and 
when  there  was  the  gypsy  race  present  under  such  conditions 
as  would  enable  me  to  get  my  heroine  and  the  hereditary 
claim  on  her  among  the  gypsies.  I  required  the  opposition 
of  race  to  give  the  need  for  renouncing  the  expectation  or 
marriage.  I  could  not  use  the  Jews  or  the  Moors,  because 
the  facts  of  their  history  were  too  conspicuously  opposed  to 
the  working  out  of  my  catastrophe.  Meanwhile  the  subject 
had  become  more  and  more  pregnant  to  me.  I  saw  it  might 
be  taken  as  a  symbol  of  the  part  which  is  played  in  the 
general  human  lot  by  hereditary  conditions  in  the  largest 
sense,  and  of  the  fact  that  what  we  call  duty  is  entirely  made 
up  of  such  conditions;  for  even  in  cases  of  just  antagonism 
to  the  narrow  view  of  hereditary  claims,  the  whole  back¬ 
ground  of  the  particular  struggle  is  made  up  of  our  inherited 
nature.  Suppose  for  a  moment  that  our  conduct  at  great 
epochs  was  determined  entirely  by  reflection,  without  the 
immediate  intervention  of  feeling,  which  supersedes  refac¬ 
tion,  our  determination  as  to  the  right  would  consist  in  an 
adjustment  of  our  individual  needs  to  the  dire  necessities  of 
^ur  lot,  partly  as  to  our  natural  constitution,  partly  as  sharers 
of  life  with  our  fellow-beings.  Tragedy  consists  in  the  ten 
rible  difficulty  of  this  adjustment,  — 

“  ‘The  dire  strife  of  poor  Humanity’s  afflicted  will, 

Struggling  in  vain  with  ruthless  destiny.’ 


EXTRACTS  FROM  GEORGE  ELIOT’S  LIFE. 


15 


Looking  at  individual  lots,  I  seemed  to  see  in  each  the  same 
story,  wrought  out  with  more  or  less  of  tragedy,  and  I  deter¬ 
mined  the  elements  of  my  drama  under  the  influence  of  these 
ideas. 

“  In  order  to  judge  properly  of  the  dramatic  structure  it 
must  not  be  considered  first  in  the  light  of  doctrinal  symbol¬ 
ism,  but  in  the  light  of  a  tragedy  representing  some  grand  col¬ 
lision  in  the  human  lot.  And  it  must  be  judged  accordingly. 
A  good  tragic  subject  must  represent  a  possible,  sufficiently 
probable,  not  a  common,  action  ;  and  to  be  really  tragic,  it 
must  represent  irreparable  collision  between  the  individual 
and  the  general  (in  differing  degrees  of  generality).  It  is  the 
individual  with  whom  we  sympathize,  and  the  general  of 
which  we  recognize  the  irresistible  power.  The  truth  of  this 
test  will  be  seen  by  applying  it  to  the  greatest  tragedies. 
The  collision  of  Greek  tragedy  is  often  that  between  heredi¬ 
tary,  entailed  Nemesis  and  the  peculiar  individual  lot,  awak¬ 
ening  our  sympathy,  of  the  particular  man  or  woman  whom  the 
Nemesis  is  shown  to  grasp  with  terrific  force.  Sometimes,  as 
in  the  Oresteia,  there  is  the  clashing  of  two  irreconcilable 
requirements,  —  two  duties,  as  we  should  say  in  these  times. 
The  murder  of  the  father  must  be  avenged  by  the  murder  of 
the  mother,  which  must  again  be  avenged.  These  two  tragic 
relations  of  the  individual  and  general,  and  of  two  irrecon¬ 
cilable  ‘oughts,’  may  be  —  will  be  —  seen  to  be  almost  always 
combined.  The  Greeks  were  not  taking  an  artificial,  entirely 
erroneous  standpoint  in  their  art,  —  a  standpoint  which  dis¬ 
appeared  altogether  with  their  religion  and  their  art.  They 
had  the  same  essential  elements  of  life  presented  to  them  as 
we  have,  and  their  art  symbolized  these  in  grand  schematic 
forms.  The  Prometheus  represents  the  ineffectual  struggle 
to  redeem  the  small  and  miserable  race  of  man,  against  the 
stronger  adverse  ordinances  that  govern  the  frame  of  things 
with  a  triumphant  power.  Coming  to  modern  tragedies  what 


16 


EXTRACTS  FROM  GEORGE  ELIOT’S  LIFE. 


is  it  that  makes  Othello  a  great  tragic  subject  ?  A  story 
simply  of  a  jealous  husband  is  elevated  into  a  most  pathetic 
tragedy  by  the  hereditary  conditions  of  Othello’s  lot,  which 
give  him  a  subjective  ground  for  distrust.  Faust,  Rigoletto 
(‘  Le  Roi  s’Amuse  ’),  Brutus.  It  might  be  a  reasonable  ground 
of  objection  against  the  whole  structure  of  ‘The  Spanish 
Gypsy,’  if  it  were  shown  that  the  action  is  outrageously 
improbable, — lying  outside  all  that  can  be  congruously  con¬ 
ceived  of  human  actions.  It  is  not  a  reasonable  ground  of 
objection  that  they  would  have  done  better  to  act  otherwise, 
any  more  than  it  is  a  reasonable  objection  against  the  Iphigenia 
that  Agamemnon  would  have  done  better  not  to  sacrifice  his 
daughter. 

“  As  renunciations  coming  under  the  same  great  class,  take 
the  renunciation  of  marriage  where  marriage  cannot  take 
place  without  entailing  misery  on  the  children. 

“  A  tragedy  has  not  to  expound  why  the  individual  must  give 
way  to  the  general ;  it  has  to  show  that  it  is  compelled  to 
give  way, — the  tragedy  consisting  in  the  struggle  involved, 
and  often  in  the  entirely  calamitous  issue  in  spite  of  a  grand 
submission.  Silva  presents  the  tragedy  of  entire  rebellion,* 
Fedalma,  of  a  grand  submission,  which  is  rendered  vain  by 
the  effects  of  Silva’s  rebellion ;  Zarca,  the  struggle  for  a  great 
end,  rendered  vain  by  the  surrounding  conditions  of  life. 

“  Now,  what  is  the  fact  about  our  individual  lots  ?  A 
woman,  say,  finds  herself  on  the  earth  with  an  inherited  organ¬ 
ization  :  she  may  be  lame,  she  may  inherit  a  disease,  or  what  is 
tantamount  to  a  disease ;  she  may  be  a  negress,  or  have 
other  marks  of  race  repulsive  in  the  community  where  she  is 
born,  etc.  One  may  go  on  for  a  long  while  without  reaching 
the  limits  of  the  commonest  inherited  misfortunes.  It  is 
almost  a  mockery  to  say  to  such  human  beings,  ‘  Seek  your 
own  happiness.’  The  utmost  approach  to  well-being  that  can 
be  made  in  such  a  case  is  through  large  resignation  and 


EXTRACTS  FROM  GEORGE  ELIOT’S  LIFE. 


IT 


acceptance  of  the  inevitable,  with  as  much  effort  to  overcome 
any  disadvantage  as  good  sense  will  show  to  be  attended  with 
a  likelihood  of  success.  Any  one  may  say,  that  is  the  dictate 
of  mere  rational  reflection.  But  calm  can  in  hardly  any  human 
organism  be  attained  by  rational  reflection.  Happily,  we  are 
not  left  to  that.  Love,  pity,  constituting  sympathy,  and 
generous  joy  with  regard  to  the  lot  of  our  fellow-men  conies 
in,  —  has  been  growing  since  the  beginning,  —  enormously 
enhanced  by  wider  vision  of  results,  by  an  imagination  ac¬ 
tively  interested  in  the  lot  of  mankind  generally ;  and  these 
feelings  become  piety,  —  that  is,  loving,  willing  submission 
and  heroic  Promethean  effort  towards  high  possibilities,  which 
may  result  from  our  individual  life. 

“There  is  really  no  moral  1  sanction ’  but  this  inward  im¬ 
pulse.  The  will  of  God  is  the  same  thing  as  the  will  of  other 
Hen,  compelling  us  to  work  and  avoid  what  they  have  seen  to 
be  harmful  to  social  existence.  Disjoined  from  any  perceived 
good,  the  divine  will  is  simply  so  much  as  we  have  ascertained 
of  the  facts  of  existence  which  compel  obedience  at  our  peril. 
Any  other  notion  comes  from  the  supposition  of  arbitrary 
revelation. 

“  That  favorite  view,  expressed  so  often  in  Clough’s  poems, 
of  doing  duty  in  blindness  as  to  the  result,  is  likely  to  deepen 
the  substitution  of  egoistic  yearnings  for  really  moral  im¬ 
pulses.  We  cannot  be  utterly  blind  to  the  results  of  duty, 
since  that  cannot  be  duty  which  is  not  already  judged  to  be 
for  human  good.  To  say  the  contrary  is  to  say  that  mankind 
have  reached  no  inductions  as  to  what  is  for  their  good  or 
evil. 

“  The  art  which  leaves  the  soul  in  despair  is  laming  to  the 
soul,  and  is  denounced  by  the  healthy  sentiment  of  an  active 
community.  The  consolatory  elements  in  1  The  Spanish 
Gypsy  ’  are  derived  from  two  convictions  or  sentiments 
which  so  conspicuously  pervade  it  that  they  may  be  said  to  be 

% 


18 


EXTRACTS  FROM  GEORGE  ELIOT’S  LIFE. 


its  very  warp,  on  which  the  whole  action  is  woven.  These 
are :  (1)  The  importance  of  individual  deeds  ;  (2)  The  all- 
sufficiency  of  the  souPs  passions  in  determining  sympathetic 
action. 

“  In  Silva  is  presented  the  claim  of  fidelity  to  social  pledges  ; 
in  Fedalma,  the  claim  constituted  by  an  hereditary  lot  less 
consciously  shared. 

“With  regard  to  the  supremacy  of  love:  if  it  were  a  fact 
without  exception  that  man  or  woman  never  did  renounce  the 
joys  of  love,  there  could  never  have  sprung  up  a  notion  that 
such  renunciation  could  present  itself  as  a  duty.  If  no  parents 
nad  ever  cared  for  their  children,  how  could  parental  affection 
have  been  reckoned  among  the  elements  of  life  ?  But  what 
are  the  facts  in  relation  to  this  matter  ?  Will  any  one  say 
that  faithfulness  to  the  marriage  tie  has  never  been  regarded 
as  a  duty,  in  spite  of  the  presence  of  the  profoundest  passion 
experienced  after  marriage  ?  Is  Guinevere’s  conduct  the  type 
of  duty  ?  ” 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY 


POEMS 


OF 


GEOROE  ELIOT. 

- 404— 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

BOOK  I. 

7rp  IS  the  warm  South,  where  Europe  spreads  her  lands 
X  Like  fretted  leaflets,  breathing  on  the  deep : 
Broad-breasted  Spain,  leaning  with  equal  love 
(A  calm  earth-goddess  crowned  with  corn  and  vines) 

On  the  Mid  Sea  that  moans  with  memories, 

And  on  the  untravelled  Ocean,  whose  vast  tides 
Pant  dumbly  passionate  with  dreams  of  youth. 

This  river,  shadowed  by  the  battlements 
And  gleaming  silvery  towards  the  northern  sky, 

Feeds  the  famed  stream  that  waters  Andalus 
And  loiters,  amorous  of  the  fragrant  air, 

By  Cordova  and  Seville  to  the  bay 
Fronting  Algarva  and  the  wandering  flood 
Of  Guadiana.  This  deep  mountain  gorge 
Slopes  widening  on  the  olive-plumed  plains 
Of  fair  Granada :  one  far-stretching  arm 
Points  to  Elvira,  one  to  eastward  heights 
Of  Alpuj arras  where  the  new-bathed  Day 
With  oriflamme  uplifted  o’er  the  peaks 


22 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Saddens  the  breasts  of  northward-looking  snows 
That  loved  the  night,  and  soared  with  soaring  stars 
Flashing  the  signals  of  his  nearing  swiftness 
From  Almeria’s  purple-shadowed  bay 
On  to  the  far-off  rocks  that  gaze  and  glow,  — 

On  to  Alhambra,  strong  and  ruddy  heart 
Of  glorious  Morisma,  gasping  now, 

A  maimed  giant  in  his  agony. 

This  town  that  dips  its  feet  within  the  stream, 

And  seems  to  sit  a  tower-crowned  Cybele, 
Spreading  her  ample  robe  adown  the  rocks, 

Is  rich  Bedmar :  ’t  was  Moorish  long  ago, 

But  now  the  Cross  is  sparkling  on  the  Mosque, 

And  bells  make  Catholic  the  trembling  air. 

The  fortress  gleams  in  Spanish  sunshine  now 

(  T  is  south  a  mile  before  the  rays  are  Moorish),  — » 

Hereditary  jewel,  agraffe  bright 

On  all  the  many-titled  privilege 

Of  young  Duke  Silva.  No  Castilian  knight 

That  serves  Queen  Isabel  has  higher  charge ; 

For  near  this  frontier  sits  the  Moorish  king, 

Not  Boabdil  the  waverer,  who  usurps 
A  throne  he  trembles  in,  and  fawning  licks 
The  feet  of  conquerors,  but  that  fierce  lion 
Grisly  El  Zagal,  who  has  made  his  lair 
In  Guadix’  fort,  and  rushing  thence  with  strength, 
Half  his  own  fierceness,  half  the  untainted  heart 
Of  mountain  bands  that  fight  for  holiday, 

Wastes  the  fair  lands  that  lie  by  Alcala, 

Wreathing  his  horse’s  neck  with  Christian  heads. 

To  keep  the  Christian  frontier,  —  such  high  trust 
Is  young  Duke  Silva’s ;  and  the  time  is  great. 
(What  times  are  little  ?  To  the  sentinel 
That  hour  is  regal  when  he  mounts  on  guard.) 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


23 


The  fifteenth  century  since  the  Man  Divine 
Taught  and  was  hated  in  Capernaum 
Is  near  its  end,  —  is  falling  as  a  husk 
Away  from  all  the  fruit  its  years  have  ripened. 

The  Moslem  faith,  now  flickering  like  a  torch 
In  a  night  struggle  on  this  shore  of  Spain, 

Glares,  a  broad  column  of  advancing  flame, 

Along  the  Danube  and  the  Illyrian  shore 
Far  into  Italy,  where  eager  monks, 

Who  watch  in  dreams  and  dream  the  while  they  watcbj 
See  Christ  grow  paler  in  the  baleful  light, 

Crying  again  the  cry  of  the  forsaken. 

But  faith,  the  stronger  for  extremity, 

Becomes  prophetic,  hears  the  far-off  tread 
Of  western  chivalry,  sees  downward  sweep 
The  archangel  Michael  with  the  gleaming  sword, 

And  listens  for  the  shriek  of  hurrying  fiends 
Chased  from  their  revels  in  God’s  sanctuary. 

So  trusts  the  monk,  and  lifts  appealing  eyes 
To  the  high  dome,  the  Church’s  firmament, 

Where  the  blue  light-pierced  curtain,  rolled  away, 
Beveals  the  throne  and  Him  who  sits  thereon. 

So  trust  the  men  whose  best  hope  for  the  world 
Is  ever  that  the  world  is  near  its  end : 

Impatient  of  the  stars  that  keep  their  course 
And  make  no  pathway  for  the  coming  Judge. 

But  other  futures  stir  the  world’s  great  heart. 

The  West  now  enters  on  the  heritage 
Won  from  the  tombs  of  mighty  ancestors, 

The  seeds,  the  gold,  the  gems,  the  silent  harp# 

That  lay  deep  buried  with  the  memories 
Of  old  renown. 

No  more,  as  once  in  sunny  Avignon, 

The  poet-scliolar  spreads  the  Homeric  page, 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


And  gazes  sadly,  like  the  deaf  at  song; 

For  now  the  old  epic  voices  ring  again 
And  vibrate  with  the  beat  and  melody 
Stirred  by  the  warmth  of  old  Ionian  days. 

The  martyred  sage,  the  Attic  orator, 

Immortally  incarnate,  like  the  gods, 

In  spiritual  bodies,  winged  words 
Holding  a  universe  impalpable, 

Find  a  new  audience.  Forevermore, 

With  grander  resurrection  than  was  feigned 
Of  Attila’s  fierce  Huns,  the  soul  of  Greece 
Conquers  the  bulk  of  Persia.  The  maimed  form 
Of  calmly  joyous  beauty,  marble-limbed, 

Y  et  breathing  with  the  thought  that  shaped  its  lips, 
Looks  mild  reproach  from  out  its  opened  grave 
At  creeds  of  terror ;  and  the  vine-wreathed  god 
Rising,  a  stifled  question  from  the  silence, 

Fronts  the  pierced  Image  with  the  crown  of  thorns. 
The  soul  of  man  is  widening  towards  the  past: 

No  longer  hanging  at  the  breast  of  life 
Feeding  in  blindness  to  his  parentage, — 

Quenching  all  wonder  with  Omnipotence, 

Praising  a  name  with  indolent  piety,  — 

He  spells  the  record  of  his  long  descent, 

More  largely  conscious  of  the  life  that  was. 

And  from  the  height  that  shows  where  morning  shone 
On  far-off  summits  pale  and  gloomy  now, 

The  horizon  widens  round  him,  and  the  west 
Looks  vast  with  untracked  waves  whereon  his  gaze 
Follows  the  flight  of  the  swift-vanished  bird 
That  like  the  sunken  sun  is  mirrored  still 
Upon  the  yearning  soul  within  the  eye. 

And  so  in  Cordova  through  patient  nights 
Columbus  watches,  or  he  sails  in  dreams 
Between  the  setting  stars  and  finds  new  day; 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


25 


Then  wakes  again  to  the  old  weary  days, 

Girds  on  the  cord  and  frock  of  pale  Saint  Francis, 
And  like  him  zealous  pleads  with  foolish  men. 

“  I  ask  but  for  a  million  maravedis  : 

Give  me  three  caravels  to  find  a  world, 

New  shores,  new  realms,  new  soldiers  for  the  Cross. 
Son  cosas  grandes  !  ”  Thus  he  pleads  in  vain; 

Yet  faints  not  utterly,  but  pleads  anew, 

Thinking,  “  God  means  it,  and  has  chosen  me.” 

For  this  man  is  the  pulse  of  all  mankind 
Feeding  an  embryo  future,  offspring  strange 
Of  the  fond  Present,  that  with  mother-prayers 
And  mother-fancies  looks  for  championship 
Of  all  her  loved  beliefs  and  old-world  ways 
From  that  young  Time  she  bears  within  her  womb. 
The  sacred  places  shall  be  purged  again, 

The  Turk  converted  and  the  Holy  Church, 

Like  the  mild  Virgin  with  the  outspread  robe, 

Shall  fold  all  tongues  and  nations  lovingly. 

But  since  God  works  by  armies,  who  shall  be 
The  modern  Cyrus?  Is  it  France  most  Christian, 
Who  with  his  lilies  and  brocaded  knights, 

French  oaths,  French  vices,  and  the  newest  style 
Of  out-puffed  sleeve,  shall  pass  from  west  to  east, 

A  winnowing  fan  to  purify  the  seed 
For  fair  millennial  harvests  soon  to  come  ? 

Or  is  not  Spain  the  land  of  chosen  warriors  ?  — 
Crusaders  consecrated  from  the  womb, 

Carrying  the  sword-cross  stamped  upon  their  souls 
By  the  long  yearnings  of  a  nation’s  life, 

Through  all  the  seven  patient  centuries 
Since  first  Pelayo  and  his  resolute  band 
Trusted  the  God  within  their  Gothic  hearts 
At  Covadunga,  and  defied  Mahound: 


26 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Beginning  so  the  Holy  War  of  Spain 
That  now  is  panting  with  the  eagerness 
Of  labor  near  its  end.  The  silver  cross 
Glitters  o’er  Malaga  and  streams  dread  light 
On  Moslem  galleys,  turning  all  their  stores 
From  threats  to  gifts.  What  Spanish  knight  is  he 
Who,  living  now,  holds  it  not  shame  to  live 
Apart  from  that  hereditary  battle 
Which  needs  his  sword  ?  Castilian  gentlemen 
Choose  not  their  task,  —  they  choose  to  do  it  wTel] 

The  time  is  great,  and  greater  no  man’s  trust 
Than  his  who  keeps  the  fortress  for  his  king, 
Wearing  great  honors  as  some  delicate  robe 
Brocaded  o’er  with  names ’t  were  sin  to  tarnish. 
Born  de  la  Cerda,  Calatravan  knight, 

Count  of  Segura,  fourth  Duke  of  Bedmar, 

Offshoot  from  that  high  stock  of  old  Castile 
Whose  topmost  branch  is  proud  Medina  Celi,  — 
Such  titles  with  their  blazonry  are  his 
Who  keeps  this  fortress,  sworn  Alcayde, 

Lord  of  the  valley,  master  of  the  town, 
Commaruding  whom  he  will,  himself  commanded 
By  Christ  his  Lord  who  sees  him  from  the  Cross 
And  from  bright  heaven  where  the  Mother  pleads ; 
By  good  Saint  James  upon  the  milk-white  steed, 
Who  leaves  his  bliss  to  fight  for  chosen  Spain ;  — 
By  t!  3  dead  gaze  of  all  his  ancestors  ;  — 

And  by  the  mystery  of  his  Spanish  blood 
Charged  with  the  awe  and  glories  of  the  past. 

See  now  with  soldiers  in  his  front  and  rear 
He  winds  at  evening  through  the  narrow  streets 
That  toward  the  Castle  gate  climb  devious : 

Hi:  charger,  of  fine  Andalusian  stock, 

An  Indian  beaut  v.  black  but  delicate, 


rI  HE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


Is  conscious  of  the  herald  trumpet  note, 

The  gathering  glances,  and  familiar  ways 
That  lead  fast  homeward  :  ‘  she  forgets  fatigue, 

And  at  the  light  touch  of  the  master’s  spur 
Thrills  with  the  zeal  to  bear  him  royally, 

Arches  her  neck  and  clambers  up  the  stones 
As  if  disdainful  of  the  difficult  steep. 

Night-black  the  charger,  black  the  rider’s  plume, 

But  all  between  is  bright  with  morning  hues,  — 
Seems  ivory  and  gold  and  deep  blue  gems, 

And  starry  flashing  steel  and  pale  vermilion, 

All  set  in  jasper :  on  his  surcoat  white 
Glitter  the  swordbelt  and  the  jewelled  hilt, 

Bed  on  the  back  and  breast  the  holy  cross, 

And  ’twixt  the  helmet  and  the  soft-spun  white 
Thick  tawny  wavelets  like  the  lion’s  mane 
Turn  backward  from  his  brow,  pale,  wide,  erect, 
Shadowing  blue  eyes,  —  blue  as  the  rain- washed  sky 
That  braced  the  early  stem  of  Gothic  kings 
He  claims  for  ancestry.  A  goodly  knight, 

A  noble  caballero,  broad  of  chest 

And  long  of  limb.  So  much  the  August  sun. 

Now  in  the  west  but  shooting  half  its  beams 
Past  a  dark  rocky  profile  toward  the  plain, 

At  winding  opportunities  across  the  slope 
Makes  suddenly  luminous  for  all  who  see : 
for  women  smiling  from  the  terraced  roofs ; 

For  boys  that  prone  on  trucks  with  head  up-propped, 
Lazy  and  curious,  stare  irreverent ; 

For  men  who  make  obeisance  with  degrees 
Of  good-will  shading  towards  servility, 
here  good-will  ends  and  secret  fear  begins, 

And  curses,  too,  low-muttered  through  the  teeth. 
Explanatory  to  the  God  of  Shem, 


28 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Five,  grouped  within  a  whitened  tavern  court 
Of  Moorish  fashion,  where  the  trellised  vines 
Purpling  above  their  heads  make  odorous  shade. 

Note  through  the  open  door  the  passers-by, 

Getting  some  rills  of  novelty  to  speed 
The  lagging  stream  of  talk  and  help  the  wine. 

’T  is  Christian  to  drink  wine :  whoso  denies 
His  flesh  at  bidding  save  of  Holy  Church, 

Let  him  beware  and  take  to  Christian  sins 
Lest  he  be  taxed  with  Moslem  sanctity. 

The  souls  are  five,  the  talkers  only  three. 

(No  time,  most  tainted  by  wrong  faith  and  rule, 

But  holds  some  listeners  and  dumb  animals.) 

Mine  Host  is  one :  he  with  the  well-arched  nose, 
Soft-eyed,  fat-handed,  loving  men  for  naught 
But  his  own  humor,  patting  old  and  young 
Upon  the  back,  and  mentioning  the  cost 
With  confidential  blandness,  as  a  tax 
That  he  collected  much  against  his  will 
From  Spaniards  who  were  all  his  bosom  friends : 
Warranted  Christian,- — else  how  keep  an  inn, 

Which  calling  asks  true  faith  ?  though  like  his  wine 
Of  cheaper  sort,  a  trifle  over-new. 

His  father  was  a  convert,  chose  the  chrism 
A.s  men  choose  physic,  kept  his  chimney  warm 
With  smokiest  wood  upon  a  Saturday, 

Counted  his  gains  and  grudges  on  a  chaplet, 

And  crossed  himself  asleep  for  fear  of  spies  •, 

Trusting  the  God  of  Israel  would  see 

*T  was  Christian  tyranny  that  made  him  base. 

Our  host  his  son  was  born  ten  years  too  soon. 

Had  heard  his  mother  call  him  Ephraim, 

Knew  holy  things  from  common,  thought  it  sin 
To  feast  on  days  when  Israel’s  children  mourned. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


29 


So  had  to  be  converted  with  his  sire, 

To  doff  the  awe  he  learned  as  Eoliraim, 

x~  ' 

And  suit  his  manners  to  a  Christian  name. 

But  infant  awe,  that  unborn  breathing  thing, 

Dies  with  what  nourished  it,  can  never  rise 

From  the  dead  womb  and  walk  and  seek  new  pastur* 

Baptism  seemed  to  him  a  merry  game 

Not  tried  before,  all  sacraments  a  mode 

Of  doing  homage  for  one’s  property, 

And  all  religions  a  queer  human  whim 
Or  else  a  vice,  according  to  degrees  : 

As,  ’t  is  a  whim  to  like  your  chestnuts  hot, 

Burn  your  own  mouth  and  draw  your  face  awry, 

A  vice  to  pelt  frogs  with  them,  —  animals 
Content  to  take  life  coolly.  And  Lorenzo 
Would  have  all  lives  made  easy,  even  lives 
Of  spiders  and  inquisitors,  yet  still 
Wishing  so  well  to  flies  and  Moors  and  Jews, 

He  rather  wished  the  others  easy  death ; 

For  loving  all  men  clearly  was  deferred 

Till  all  men  loved  each  other.  Such  mine  Host, 

With  chiselled  smile  caressing  Seneca, 

The  solemn  mastiff  leaning  on  his  knee. 

His  right-hand  guest  is  solemn  as  the  dog, 
Square-faced  and  massive :  Blasco  is  his  name, 

A  prosperous  silversmith  from  Aragon ; 

In  speech  not  silvery,  rather  tuned  as  notes 
From  a  deep  vessel  made  of  plenteous  iron, 

Or  some  great  bell  of  slow  but  certain  swing 
That,  if  you  only  wait,  will  tell  the  hour 
As  well  as  flippant  clocks  that  strike  in  haste 
And  set  off  chiming  a  superfluous  tune,  — 

Like  Juan  there,  the  spare  man  with  the  lute, 

Who  makes  you  dizzy  with  his  rapid  tongue, 


so 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Whirring  athwart  your  mind  with  comment  swift 
On  speech  you  would  have  finished  by  and  by, 
Shooting  your  bird  for  you  while  you  are  loading, 
Cheapening  your  wisdom  as  a  pattern  known, 
Woven  by  any  shuttle  on  demand. 

Can  never  sit  quite  still,  too  :  sees  a  wasp 
And  kills  it  with  a  movement  like  a  flash ; 

Whistles  low  notes  or  seems  to  thrum  his  lute 
As  a  mere  hyphen  ’twixt  two  syllables 
Of  any  steadier  man ;  walks  up  and  down 
And  snuffs  the  orange  flowers  and  shoots  a  pea 
To  hit  a  streak  of  light  let  through  the  awning. 
Has  a  queer  face :  eyes  large  as  plums,  a  nose 
Small,  round,  uneven,  like  a  bit  of  wax 
Melted  and  cooled  by  chance.  Thin-fingered,  lithe, 
And  as  a  squirrel  noiseless,  startling  men 
Only  by  quickness.  In  his  speech  and  look 
A  touch  of  graceful  wildness,  as  of  things 
Not  trained  or  tamed  for  uses  of  the  world ; 

Most  like  the  Fauns  that  roamed  in  days  of  old 
About  the  listening  whispering  woods,  and  shared 
The  subtler  sense  of  sylvan  ears  and  eyes 
Undulled  by  scheming  thought,  yet  joined  the  rout 
Of  men  and  women  on  the  festal  days, 

And  played  the  syrinx  too,  and  knew  love’s  pains, 
Turning  their  anguish  into  melody. 

For  Juan  was  a  minstrel  still,  in  times 
When  minstrelsy  was  held  a  thing  outworn. 

Spirits  seem  buried  and  their  epitaph 
Is  writ  in  Latin  by  severest  pens, 

Yet  still  they  flit  above  the  trodden  grave 
And  find  new  bodies,  animating  them 
In  quaint  and  ghostly  way  with  antique  souls. 

So  Juan  was  a  troubadour  revived, 

Freshening  life’s  dusty  road  with  babbling  rills 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


31 


Of  wit  and  song,  living  5mid  harnessed  men 
With  limbs  ungalled  by  armor,  ready  so 
To  soothe  them  weary,  and  to  cheer  them  sad. 

Guest  at  the  board,  companion  in  the  camp, 

A  crystal  mirror  to  the  life  around, 

Flashing  the  comment  keen  of  simple  fact 
Defined  in  words ;  lending  brief  lyric  voice 
To  grief  and  sadness ;  hardly  taking  note 
Of  difference  betwixt  his  own  and  others’ ; 

But  rather  singing  as  a  listener 

To  the  deej3  moans,  the  cries,  the  wild  strong  joys 

Of  universal  Nature,  old  yet  young. 

Such  Juan,  the  third  talker,  shimmering  bright 
As  butterfly  or  bird  with  quickest  life. 

The  silent  Boldax  has  his  brightness  too, 

But  only  in  his  spangles  and  rosettes. 

His  party-colored  vest  and  crimson  hose 

Are  dulled  with  old  Yalencian  dust,  his  eyes 

With  straining  fifty  years  at  gilded  balls 

To  catch  them  dancing,  or  with  brazen  looks 

At  men  and  women  as  he  made  his  jests 

Some  thousand  times  and  watched  to  count  the  pence 

His  wife  was  gathering.  His  olive  face 

Has  an  old  writing  in  it,  characters 

Stamped  deep  by  grins  that  had  no  merriment, 

The  soul’s  rude  mark  proclaiming  all  its  blank ; 

As  on  some  faces  that  have  long  grown  old 
In  lifting  tapers  up  to  forms  obscene 
On  ancient  walls  and  chuckling  with  false  zest 
To  please  my  lord,  who  gives  the  larger  fee 
For  that  hard  industry  in  apishness. 

Roldan  would  gladly  never  laugh  again ; 

Pensioned,  he  would  be  grave  as  any  ox, 

And  having  beans  and  crumbs  and  oil  secured 


*2  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Would  borrow  no  man’s  jokes  forevermore. 

’T  is  harder  now  because  his  wife  is  gone, 

Who  had  quick  feet,  and  danced  to  ravishment 
Of  every  ring  jewelled  with  Spanish  eyes, 

But  died  and  left  this  boy,  lame  from  his  birth, 

And  sad  and  obstinate,  though  when  he  will 
He  sings  God-taught  such  marrow-thrilling  strains 
As  seem  the  very  voice  of  dying  Spring, 

A  flute-like  wail  that  mourns  the  blossoms  gone, 
And  sinks,  and  is  not,  like  their  fragrant  breath 
With  fine  transition  on  the  trembling  air. 

He  sits  as  if  imprisoned  by  some  fear, 

Motionless,  with  wide  eyes  that  seem  not  made 
For  hungry  glancing  of  a  twelve-y eared  boy 
To  mark  the  living  thing  that  he  could  tease, 

But  for  the  gaze  of  some  primeval  sadness 
Dark  twin  with  light  in  the  creative  ray. 

This  little  Pablo  has  his  spangles  too, 

And  large  rosettes  to  hide  his  poor  left  foot 
Rounded  like  any  hoof  (his  mother  thought 
God  willed  it  so  to  punish  all  her  sins). 

I  said  the  souls  were  five,  —  besides  the  dog. 

But  there  was  still  a  sixth,  with  wrinkled  face, 
Grave  and  disgusted  with  all  merriment 
Not  less  than  Roldan.  It  is  Annibal, 

The  experienced  monkey  who  performs  the  tricks, 
Jumps  through  the  hoops,  and  carries  round  the  hat. 
Once  full  of  sallies  and  impromptu  feats, 

Now  cautious  not  to  light  on  aught  that ’s  new, 

Lest  he  be  whipped  to  do  it  o’er  again 
From  A  to  Z,  and  make  the  gentry  laugh : 

A  misanthropic  monkey,  gray  and  grim, 

Bearing  a  lot  that  has  no  remedy 
For  want  of  concert  in  the  monkey  tribe. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


33 


We  see  the  company,  above  their  heads 
The  braided  matting,  golden  as  ripe  corn, 

Stretched  in  a  curving  strip  close  by  the  grapes, 
Elsewhere  rolled  back  to  greet  the  cooler  sky ; 

A  fountain  near,  vase-shapen  and  broad-lipped, 
Where  timorous  birds  alight  with  tiny  feet, 

And  hesitate  and  bend  wise  listening  ears, 

And  fly  away  again  with  undipped  beak. 

On  the  stone  floor  the  juggler’s  heaped-up  goods, 
Carpet  and  hoops,  viol  and  tambourine, 

Where  Annibal  sits  perched  with  brows  severe, 

A  serious  ape  whom  none  take  seriously, 

Obliged  in  this  fool’s  world  to  earn  his  nuts 
By  hard  buffoonery.  We  see  them  all, 

And  hear  their  talk, — the  talk  of  Spanish  men. 
With  Southern  intonation,  vowels  turned 
Caressingly  between  the  consonants, 

Persuasive,  willing,  with  such  intervals 
As  music  borrows  from  the  wooing  birds, 

That  plead  with  subtly  curving,  sweet  descent,  — 
And  yet  can  quarrel,  as  these  Spaniards  can. 

Juan-  (near  the  doorway). 

You  hear  the  trumpet  ?  There ’s  old  Ramon’s  blast 
No  bray  but  his  can  shake  the  air  so  well. 

He  takes  his  trumpeting  as  solemnly 
As  angel  charged  to  wake  the  dead ;  thinks  war 
Was  made  for  trumpeters,  and  their  great  art 
Made  solely  for  themselves  who  understand  it. 

His  features  all  have  shaped  themselves  to  blowing, 
And  when  his  trumpet ’s  bagged  or  left  at  home 
He  seems  a  chattel  in  a  broker’s  booth, 

A  spoutless  watering-can,  a  promise  to  pay 
No  sum  particular.  0  fine  old  Ramon ! 

The  blasts  get  louder  and  the  clattering  hoofs ; 


36 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Then  he  will  know  the  quality  of  mine. 

I  ’ve  ware  for  tables  and  for  altars  too, 

Our  Lady  in  all  sizes,  crosses,  bells : 

He  ’ll  need  such  weapons  full  as  much  as  swords 
If  he  would  capture  any  Moorish  town. 

For,  let  me  tell  you,  when  a  mosque  is  cleansed  . .  •  „ 

Juan. 

The  demons  fly  so  thick  from  sound  of  bells 
And  smell  of  incense,  you  may  see  the  air 
Streaked  with  them  as  with  smoke.  Why,  they  are 
spirits : 

You  may  well  think  how  crowded  they  must  be 
To  make  a  sort  of  haze. 


Blasco. 

I  knew  not  that. 

Still,  they  ’re  of  smoky  nature,  demons  are ; 

And  since  you  say  so,  —  well,  it  proves  the  more 
The  need  of  bells  and  censers.  Ay,  your  Duke 
Sat  well :  a  true  hidalgo.  I  can  judge,  — 

Of  harness  specially.  I  saw  the  camp, 

The  royal  camp  at  Yelez  Malaga. 

JT  was  like  the  court  of  heaven,  —  such  liveries ! 
And  torches  carried  by  the  score  at  night 
Before  the  nobles.  Sirs,  I  made  a  dish 
To  set  an  emerald  in  would  fit  a  crown, 

For  Don  Alonzo,  lord  of  Aguilar. 

Your  Duke  ’s  no  whit  behind  him  in  his  mien 
Or  harness  either.  But  you  seem  to  say 
The  people  love  him  not. 


Host. 

They  ’ve  naught  against  him. 
But  certain  winds  will  make  men’s  temper  bad. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


S7 


When  the  Solano  blows  hot  venomed  breath, 

It  acts  upon  men’s  knives  :  steel  takes  to  stabbing 
Which  else,  with  cooler  winds,  were  honest  steel. 
Cutting  but  garlick.  There  ’s  a  wind  just  now 
Blows  right  from  Seville  — 

Blasco. 

Ay,  you  mean  the  wind  . .  .  , 
Yes,  yes,  a  wind  that ’s  rather  hot .... 

Host. 

With  fagots. 

Juan. 

A  wind  that  suits  not  with  our  townsmen’s  blood. 
Abram,  ’t  is  said,  objected  to  be  scorched, 

And,  as  the  learned  Arabs  vouch,  he  gave 
The  antipathy  in  full  to  Ishmael. 

’T  is  true,  these  patriarchs  had  their  oddities. 

Blasco. 

Their  oddities  ?  I ’m  of  their  mind,  I  know. 

Though,  as  to  Abraham  and  Ishmael, 

I ’m  an  old  Christian,  and  owe  naught  to  them 
Or  any  Jew  among  them.  But  I  know 
We  made  a  stir  in  Saragossa  —  we: 

The  men  of  Aragon  ring  hard,  —  true  metal. 

Sirs,  I ’m  no  friend  to  heresy,  but  then 
A  Christian’s  money  is  not  safe.  As  how  ? 

A  lapsing  J ew  or  any  heretic 

May  owe  me  twenty  ounces  :  suddenly 

He ’s  prisoned,  suffers  penalties,  —  ’t  is  well : 

If  men  will  not  believe,  ’t  is  good  to  make  them, 

But  let  the  penalties  fall  on  them  alone. 

The  Jew  is  stripped,  his  goods  are  confiscate ; 

Now,  where,  I  pray  you,  go  my  twenty  ounces  ? 


38 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


God  knows,  and  perhaps  the  King  may,  but  not  I 
And  more,  my  son  may  lose  his  young  wife’s  dowel 
Because ’t  was  promised  since  her  father’s  soul 
Fell  to  wrong  thinking.  How  was  I  to  know  ? 

I  could  but  use  my  sense  and  cross  myself. 

Christian  is  Christian,  —  I  give  in,  —  but  still 
Taxing  is  taxing,  though  you  call  it  holy. 

We  Saragossans  liked  not  this  new  tax 
They  call  the  —  nonsense,  I ’m  from  Aragon ! 

I  speak  too  bluntly.  But,  for  Holy  Church, 

No  man  believes  more. 

Host. 

Nay,  sir,  never  fear. 

Good  Master  Roldan  here  is  no  delator. 

Roldan  (starting  from  a  reverie). 

You  speak  to  me,  sirs  ?  I  perform  to-night  — 

The  Playa  Santiago.  Twenty  tricks, 

All  different.  I  dance,  too.  And  the  boy 
Sings  like  a  bird.  I  crave  your  patronage. 

Blasco. 

Faith,  you  shall  have  it,  sir.  In  travelling 
I  take  a  little  freedom,  and  am  gay. 

You  marked  not  what  I  said  just  now  ? 

Roldan. 

I  ?  no. 

I  pray  your  pardon.  I’ve  a  twinging  knee, 

That  makes  it  hard  to  listen.  You  were  saying? 

Blasco. 

Nay,  it  was  naught.  (Aside  to  Host.)  Is  it  his  deepness  1 

Host. 

No. 


He 's  deep  in  nothing  but  his  poverty 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


39 


Blasco. 

But ’t  was  his  poverty  that  made  me  think 

Host. 

His  piety  might  wish  to  keep  the  feasts 
As  well  as  fasts.  No  fear ;  he  hears  not. 

Blasco. 

Good. 

I  speak  my  mind  about  the  penalties, 

But,  look  you,  I ’m  against  assassination. 

You  know  my  meaning  —  Master  Arbues, 

The  grand  Inquisitor  in  Aragon. 

I  knew  naught,  —  paid  no  copper  towards  the  deed. 
But  I  was  there,  at  prayers,  within  the  church. 

How  could  I  help  it  ?  Why,  the  saints  were  there, 
And  looked  straight  on  above  the  altars.  I .  .  . . 

Juan. 

Looked  carefully  i  lother  way. 

Blasco. 

Why,  at  my  beads. 

?T  was  after  midnight,  and  the  canons  all 
Were  chanting  matins.  I  was  not  in  church 
To  gape  and  stare.  I  saw  the  martyr  kneel : 

I  never  liked  the  look  of  him  alive,  — 

He  was  no  martyr  then.  I  thought  he  made 
An  ugly  shadow  as  he  crept  athwart 
The  bands  of  light,  then  passed  within  the  gloom 
By  the  broad  pillar.  JT  was  in  our  great  Seo, 

At  Saragossa.  The  pillars  tower  so  large 
You  cross  yourself  to  see  them,  lest  white  Deafcn 
Should  hide  behind  their  dark.  And  so  it  was. 


40 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


I  looked  away  again  and  told  my  beads 
Unthinkingly ;  but  still  a  man  has  ears ; 

And  right  across  the  chanting  came  a  sound 
As  if  a  tree  had  crashed  above  the  roar 
Of  some  great  torrent.  So  it  seemed  to  me ; 

For  when  you  listen  long  and  shut  your  eyes 
Small  sounds  get  thunderous.  And  he ’d  a  shell 
Like  any  lobster :  a  good  iron  suit 
From  top  to  toe  beneath  the  innocent  serge. 

That  made  the  telltale  sound.  But  then  came  shrieka 
The  chanting  stopped  and  turned  to  rushing  feet, 

And  in  the  midst  lay  Master  Arbues, 

Felled  like  an  ox.  ’T  was  wicked  butchery. 

Some  honest  men  had  hoped  it  would  have  scared 
The  Inquisition  out  of  Aragon. 

JT  was  money  thrown  away,  —  I  would  say,  crime,— 
Clean  thrown  away. 


Host. 

That  was  a  pity  now. 

Next  to  a  missing  thrust,  what  irks  me  most 
Is  a  neat  well-aimed  stroke  that  kills  your  man. 
Yet  ends  in  mischief,  —  as  in  Aragon. 

It  was  a  lesson  to  our  people  here. 

Else  there  ?s  a  monk  within  our  city  walls, 

A  holy,  high-born,  stern  Dominican, 

They  might  have  made  the  great  mistake  to  kil]. 

Blasco. 

What !  is  he  ?  . 

Host. 

Yes ;  a  Master  ArbuSs 
Of  finer  quality.  The  Prior  here 
And  uncle  to  our  Duke 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


41 


Blasco. 

He  will  want  plate : 

A  holy  pillar  or  a  crucifix. 

But,  did  you  say,  he  was  like  Arbues  ? 

Juan. 

As  a  black  eagle  with  gold  beak  and  claws 
Is  like  a  raven.  Even  in  his  cowl, 

Covered  from  head  to  foot,  the  Prior  is  known 
From  all  the  black  herd  round.  When  he  uncovers 
And  stands  white-frocked,  with  ivory  face,  his  eyes 
Black-gleaming,  black  his  coronet  of  hair 
Like  shredded  jasper,  he  seems  less  a  man 
With  struggling  aims  than  pure  incarnate  Will, 

Fit  to  subdue  rebellious  nations,  nay, 

That  human  flesh  he  breathes  in,  charged  with  passion 
Which  quivers  in  his  nostril  and  his  lip, 

But  disciplined  by  long-indwelling  will 
To  silent  labor  in  the  yoke  of  law. 

A  truce  to  thy  comparisons,  Lorenzo ! 

Thine  is  no  subtle  nose  for  difference ; 

’T  is  dulled  by  feigning  and  civility. 

Host. 

Pooh,  thou  ?rt  a  poet,  crazed  with  finding  words 
May  stick  to  things  and  seem  like  qualities. 

No  pebble  is  a  pebble  in  thy  hands : 

5T  is  a  moon  out  of  work,  a  barren  egg, 

Or  twenty  things  that  no  man  sees  but  thee. 

Our  father  Isidor ’s  —  a  living  saint, 

And  that  is  heresy,  some  townsmen  think : 

Saints  should  be  dead,  according  to  the  Church. 

My  mind  is  this :  the  Father  is  so  holy 
’T  were  sin  to  wish  his  soul  detained  from  bliss. 

Easy  translation  to  the  realms  above, 


42 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  shortest  journey  to  the  seventh  heaven, 

Is  what  I  ’d  never  grudge  him. 

Blasco. 

Piously  said. 

Look  you,  I  hn  dutiful,  obey  the  Church 
When  there ’s  no  help  for  it :  I  mean  to  say, 

When  Pope  and  Bishop  and  all  customers 
Order  alike.  But  there  be  bishops  now, 

And  were  aforetime,  who  have  held  it  wrong, 

This  hurry  to  convert  the  Jews.  As,  how  ? 

Your  Jew  pays  tribute  to  the  bishop,  say. 

That ’s  good,  and  must  please  God,  to  see  the  Church 
Maintained  in  ways  that  ease  the  Christian’s  purse. 
Convert  the  Jew,  and  where ’s  the  tribute,  pray  ? 

He  lapses,  too :  ’t  is  slippery  work,  conversion : 

And  then  the  holy  taxing  carries  off 
His  money  at  one  sweep.  Ho  tribute  more ! 

He ’s  penitent  or  burnt,  and  there ’s  an  end. 

How  guess  which  pleases  God  .... 

Juan. 

Whether  he  likes 

A  well-burnt  Jew  or  well-fed  bishop  best. 

[While  Juan  put  this  problem  theologic 
Entered,  with  resonant  step,  another  guest,— 

A  soldier :  all  his  keenness  in  his  sword, 

His  eloquence  in  scars  upon  his  cheek, 

His  virtue  in  much  slaying  of  the  Moor : 

With  brow  well-creased  in  horizontal  folds 
To  save  the  space,  as  having  naught  to  do : 

Lips  prone  to  whistle  whisperingly,  —  no  tune. 

But  trotting  rhythm  :  meditative  eyes, 

Most  often  fixed  upon  his  legs  and  spurs ; 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


43 


Invited  much,  and  held  good  company: 

Styled  Captain  Lopez.] 

Lopez. 

At  your  service,  sirs. 

Juan. 

Ha,  Lopez  ?  Why,  thou  hast  a  face  full-charged 
As  any  herald’s.  What  news  of  the  wars  ? 

Lopez. 

Such  news  as  is  most  bitter  on  my  tongue. 

Juan. 

Then  spit  it  forth. 

Host. 

Sit,  Captain :  here ’s  a  cup, 
Fresh-filled.  What  news  ? 

Lopez. 

’T  is  bad.  We  make  no  sally 
We  sit  still  here  and  wait  whate’er  the  Moor 
Shall  please  to  do. 

Host. 

Some  townsmen  will  be  glad. 
Lopez. 

Glad,  will  they  be  ?  But  I ’m  not  glad,  not  I, 

Nor  any  Spanish  soldier  of  clean  blood. 

But  the  Duke’s  wisdom  is  to  wait  a  siege 
Instead  of  laying  one.  Therefore  —  meantime  — 

He  will  be  married  straightway. 


44 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Host. 

Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Thy  speech  is  like  an  hourglass ;  turn  it  down 
The  other  way,  ’t  will  stand  as  well,  and  say 
The  Duke  will  wed,  therefore  he  waits  a  siege. 

But  what  say  Don  Diego  and  the  Prior  ? 

The  holy  uncle  and  the  fiery  Don  ? 

Lopez. 

Oh  there  be  sayings  running  all  abroad 
As  thick  as  nuts  o’erturned.  No  man  need  lack. 
Some  say,  ’t  was  letters  changed  the  Duke’s  intent : 
From  Malaga,  says  Bias.  From  Borne,  says  Quintin. 
From  spies  at  Guadix,  says  Sebastian. 

Some  say,  ’t  is  all  a  pretext,  —  say,  the  Duke 
Is  but  a  lapdog  hanging  on  a  skirt, 

Turning  his  eyeballs  upward  like  a  monk : 

’T  was  Don  Diego  said  that,  —  so  says  Bias ; 

Last  week,  he  said  .... 

Juan. 

Oh  do  without  the  “  said  ”  1 
Open  thy  mouth  and  pause  in  lieu  of  it. 

I  had  as  lief  be  pelted  with  a  pea 
Irregularly  in  the  selfsame  spot 
As  hear  such  iteration  without  rule, 

Such  torture  of  uncertain  certainty. 

Lopez. 

Santiago  !  Juan,  thou  art  hard  to  please. 

I  speak  not  for  my  own  delighting,  I. 

I  can  be  silent,  I. 

Blasco. 

Nay,  sir,  speak  on ! 

I  like  your  matter  well.  I  deal  in  plate. 

This  wedding  touches  me.  Who  is  the  bride  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


45 


Lopez. 

One  that  some  say  the  Duke  does  ill  to  wed. 

One  that  his  mother  reared  —  God  rest  her  soul !  — 
Duchess  Diana,  —  she  who  died  last  year. 

A  bird  picked  up  away  from  any  nest. 

Her  name  —  the  Duchess  gave  it  —  is  Fedalma. 

No  harm  in  that.  But  the  Duke  stoops,  they  say, 

In  wedding  her.  And  that ’s  the  simple  truth. 

Juan. 

Thy  simple  truth  is  but  a  false  opinion : 

The  simple  truth  of  asses  who  believe 
Their  thistle  is  the  very  best  of  food. 

Fie,  Lopez,  thou  a  Spaniard  with  a  sword 
Dreamest  a  Spanish  noble  ever  stoops 
By  doing  honor  to  the  maid  he  loves  ! 

He  stoops  alone  when  he  dishonors  her. 

Lopez. 

Nay,  I  said  naught  against  her. 

Juan. 

Better  not. 

Else  I  would  challenge  thee  to  fight  with  wits, 

And  spear  thee  through  and  through  ere  thou  couldst 
draw 

The  bluntest  word.  Yes,  yes,  consult  thy  spurs : 

Spurs  are  a  sign  of  knighthood,  and  should  tell  thee 
That  knightly  love  is  blent  with  reverence 
As  heavenly  air  is  blent  with  heavenly  blua 
Don  Silva’s  heart  beats  to  a  chivalric  tune : 

He  wills  no  highest-born  Castilian  dame, 

Betrothed  to  highest  noble,  should  be  held 
More  sacred  than  Fedalma.  He  enshrines 


46 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Her  virgin  image  for  the  general  worship 
And  for  his  own,  —  will  guard  her  from  the  world} 
Kay,  his  profaner  self,  lest  he  should  lose 
The  place  of  his  religion.  He  does  well. 

Naught  can  come  closer  to  the  poets’  strain. 

Host. 

Or  further  from  their  practice,  J uan,  eh  ? 

If  thou  ’rt  a  specimen  ? 

Juan. 

Wrong,  my  Lorenzo ! 
Touching  Fedalma  the  poor  poet  plays 
A  finer  part  even  than  the  noble  Duke. 

Lopez. 

By  making  ditties,  singing  with  round  mouth 
Likest  a  crowing  cock  ?  Thou  meanest  that  ? 

Juan. 

Lopez,  take  physic,  thou  art  getting  ill, 

Growing  descriptive  ;  ’t  is  unnatural. 

I  mean,  Don  Silva’s  love  expects  reward, 

Kneels  with  a  heaven  to  come  ;  but  the  poor  poet 
Worships  without  reward,  nor  hopes  to  find 
A  heaven  save  in  his  worship.  He  adores 
The  sweetest  woman  for  her  sweetness’  sake, 

Joys  in  the  love  that  was  not  born  for  him, 
Because ’t  is  lovingness,  as  beggars  joy, 

Warming  their  naked  limbs  on  wayside  walls, 

To  hear  a  tale  of  princes  and  their  glory. 

There ’s  a  poor  poet  (poor,  I  mean,  in  coin) 
Worships  Fedalma  with  so  true  a  love 
That  if  her  silken  robe  were  changed  for  rags, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


47 


And  she  were  driven  out  to  stony  wilds 
Barefoot,  a  scorned  wanderer,  he  would  kiss 
Her  ragged  garment’s  edge,  and  only  ask 
For  leave  to  be  her  slave.  Digest  that,  friend, 

Or  let  it  lie  upon  thee  as  a  weight 
To  check  light  thinking  of  Fedalma. 

Lopez. 

I? 

I  think  no  harm  of  her  ;  I  thank  the  saints 
I  wear  a  sword  and  peddle  not  in  thinking. 

’T  is  Father  Marcos  says  she  ’ll  not  confess 
And  loves  not  holy  water  ;  says  her  blood 
Is  infidel ;  says  the  Duke’s  wedding  her 
Is  union  of  light  with  darkness. 

Juan. 

•  N 

Tush! 

[Now  Juan  —  who  by  snatches  touched  his  lute 
With  soft  arpeggio,  like  a  whispered  dream 
Of  sleeping  music,  while  he  spoke  of  love,  — 

In  jesting  anger  at  the  soldier’s  talk 
Thrummed  loud  and  fast,  th4n  faster  and  more  loud 
Till,  as  he  answered,  “  Tush  !  ”  he  struck  a  chord 
Sudden  as  whip-crack  close  by  Lopez’  ear. 

Mine  host  and  Blasco  smiled,  the  mastiff  barked, 
Roldan  looked  up  and  Annibal  looked  down, 
Cautiously  neutral  in  so  new  a  case ; 

The  boy  raised  longing,  listening  eyes  that  seemed 
An  exiled  spirit’s  waiting  in  strained  hope 
Of  voices  coming  from  the  distant  land. 

But  Lopez  bore  the  assault  like  any  rock : 

That  was  not  what  he  drew  his  sword  at  —  he ! 

He  spoke  with  neck  erect.] 


48 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Lopez. 

If  that  ’s  a  hint 

The  company  should  ask  thee  for  a  song, 

Sing,  then ! 

Host. 

Ay,  Juan,  sing,  and  jar  no  more. 
Something  brand  new.  Thou  ’rt  wont  to  make  my  eai 
A  test  of  novelties.  Hast  thou  aught  fresh  ? 

Juan. 

As  fresh  as  rain-drops.  Here ’s  a  Cancion 
Springs  like  a  tiny  mushroom  delicate 
Out  of  the  priest’s  foul  scandal  of  Eedalma. 

[He  preluded  with  questioning  intervals, 

Rising,  then  falling  just  a  semitone, 

In  minor  cadence,  —  sound  with  poised  wing 
Hovering  and  quivering  towards  the  needed  fall. 

Then  in  a  voice  that  shook  the  willing  air 
With  masculine  vibration  sang  this  song. 

Should  I  long  that  dark  were  fair  ? 

Say ,  0  song  ! 

Lacks  my  love  aught ,  that  I  should  long  ? 

Lark  the  night ,  with  breath  all  fiow'rs, 

And  tender  broken  voice  that  fills 
With  ravishment  the  listening  hours  : 

Whisperings ,  wooings , 

Liquid  ripples  and  soft  ring-dove  cooings 
In  low-toned  rhythm  that  love's  aching  stills . 

Lark  the  night , 

Yet  is  she  bright , 

For  in  her  dark  she  brings  the  mystic  star , 
Trembling  yet  strong ,  as  is  the  voice  of  love, 

F*ovi  some  unknown  afar. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


49 


0  radiant  Dark  !  0  darkly  fostered  ray  ! 

Thou  hast  a  joy  too  deep  for  shallow  Day. 

While  Juan  sang,  all  round  the  tavern  court 
Gathered  a  constellation  of  black  eyes. 

Fat  Lola  leaned  upon  the  balcony 
With  arms  that  might  have  pillowed  Hercules 
(Who  built,  ’t  is  known,  the  mightiest  Spanish  towns) : 
Thin  Alda’s  face,  sad  as  a  wasted  passion, 

Leaned  o’er  the  nodding  baby’s ;  ’twixt  the  rails 
The  little  Pepe  showed  his  two  black  beads, 

His  flat-ringed  hair  and  small  Semitic  nose 
Complete  and  tiny  as  a  new-born  minnow ; 

Patting  his  head  and  holding  in  her  arms 
The  baby  senior,  stood  Lorenzo’s  wife 
kll  negligent,  her  kerchief  discomposed 
By  little  clutches,  woman’s  coquetry 
Quite  turned  to  mother’s  cares  and  sweet  content. 
These  on  the  balcony,  while  at  the  door 
Gazed  the  lank  boys  and  lazy-shouldered  men. 

*T  is  likely  too  the  rats  and  insects  peeped, 

Being  southern  Spanish  ready  for  a  lounge. 

The  singer  smiled,  as  doubtless  Orpheus  smiled, 

To  see  the  animals  both  great  and  small, 

The  mountainous  elephant  and  scampering  mouse, 
Held  by  the  ears  in  decent  audience ; 

Then,  when  mine  host  desired  the  strain  once  more, 
He  fell  to  preluding  with  rhythmic  change 
Of  notes  recurrent,  soft  as  pattering  drops 
That  fall  from  off  the  eaves  in  faery  dance 
When  clouds  are  breaking ;  till  at  measured  pause 
He  struck,  in  rare  responsive  chords,  a  refrain.] 

Host. 

Come,  then,  a  gayer  romaunt,  if  thou  wilt : 

I  quarrel  not  with  change.  What  say  you,  Captain  ? 

4 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Lopez. 

All  ’s  one  to  me.  I  note  no  change  of  tune, 

Not  I,  save  in  the  ring  of  horses’  hoofs, 

Or  in  the  drums  and  trumpets  when  they  call 
To  action  or  retreat.  I  ne’er  could  see 
The  good  of  singing. 

Blasco. 

Why,  it  passes  time,  — 

Saves  you  from  getting  over-wise :  that ’s  good. 

For,  look  you,  fools  are  merry  here  below, 

Yet  they  will  go  to  heaven  all  the  same, 

Having  the  sacraments ;  and,  look  you,  heaven 
Is  a  long  holiday,  and  solid  men, 

Used  to  much  business,  might  be  ill  at  ease 
Not  liking  play.  And  so  in  travelling 
I  shape  myself  betimes  to  idleness 
Amd  take  fools’  pleasures  .... 

Host. 

Hark,  the  song  begins  2 
Juan  (sings). 

Maiden ,  crowned  with  glossy  blackness. 

Lithe  as  'panther  forest-roamin  <7, 

Long-armed  naiad ,  when  she  dances , 

On  a  stream  of  ether  floating ,  — 

Bright ,  O  bright  Fedalma  ! 

Form  all  curves  like  softness  drifted , 

Wave-kissed  marble  roundly  dimpling , 

Far-off  music  slowly  winged , 

Gently  rising ,  gently  sinking ,  — 

Bright ,  0  bright  Fedalma  l 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


51 


Pure  as  rain-tear  on  a  rose-leaf. 

Cloud  high-born  in  noonday  spotless , 

Sudden  perfect  as  the  dew-bead , 

Gem  of  earth  and  sky  begotten ,  — 

Bright ,  0  bright  Fedalma  / 

Beauty  has  no  mortal  father , 

Holy  light  her  form  engendered 
Out  of  tremor ,  yearning ,  gladness, 

Presage  sweet  and  joy  remembered,  — 

Child  of  Light ,  Fedalma  ! 

Blasco. 

Faith,  a  good  song,  sung  to  a  stirring  time. 

I  like  the  words  returning  in  a  round ; 

It  gives  a  sort  of  sense.  Another  such  I 

Bold  an  (rising). 

Sirs,  you  will  hear  my  boy.  JT  is  very  hard 
When  gentles  sing  for  naught  to  all  the  town. 
How  can  a  poor  man  live  ?  And  now ’t  is  time 
I  go  to  the  Pla$a,  —  who  will  give  me  pence 
When  he  can  hear  hidalgos  and  give  naught  ? 

Juan. 

True,  friend.  Be  pacified.  I  T1  sing  no  more. 

Go  thou,  and  we  will  follow.  Never  fear. 

My  voice  is  common  as  the  ivy  leaves, 

Plucked  in  all  seasons,  —  bears  no  price ;  the  boy  ^ 
Is  like  the  almond  blossoms.  Ah,  he  ?s  lame  ! 

Host. 

Load  him  not  heavily.  Here,  Pedro  !  help. 

Go  with  them  to  the  PlaQa,  take  the  hoops. 

The  sights  will  pay  thee. 


62 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Blasco. 

I  ’ll  be  there  anon, 
And  set  the  fashion  with  a  good  white  coin. 
But  let  us  see  as  well  as  hear. 


Host. 


Some  tricks,  a  dance. 


Ay,  prithee. 


Blasco. 

Yes,  ’t  is  more  rational. 


Roldan  (turning  round  with  the  bundle  and  monkey  on 

his  shoulders). 

You  shall  see  all,  sirs.  There ’s  no  man  in  Spain 
Knows  his  art  better.  I  ’ve  a  twinging  knee 
Oft  hinders  dancing,  and  the  boy  is  lame. 

But  no  man’s  monkey  has  more  tricks  than  mine. 

[At  this  high  praise  the  gloomy  Annibal, 

Mournful  professor  of  high  drollery, 

Seemed  to  look  gloomier,  and  the  little  troop 

Went  slowly  out,  escorted  from  the  door 

By  all  the  idlers.  From  the  balcony 

Slowly  subsided  the  black  radiance 

Of  agate  eyes,  and  broke  in  chattering  sounds, 

Coaxings  and  trampings,  and  the  small  hoarse  squeak 

Of  Pepe’s  reed.  And  our  group  talked  again.] 

Host. 

I  ’ll  get  this  juggler,  if  he  quits  him  well, 

An  audience  here  as  choice  as  can  be  lured. 

For  me,  when  a  poor  devil  does  his  best, 

’T  is  my  delight  to  soothe  his  soul  with  praise. 

What  though  the  best  be  bad  ?  remains  the  good 
Of  throwing  food  to  a  lean  hungry  dog. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


53 


I *d  give  up  the  best  jugglery  in  life 
To  see  a  miserable  juggler  pleased. 

But  that ’s  my  humor.  Crowds  are  malcontent, 

And  cruel  as  the  Holy  ....  Shall  we  go  ? 

All  of  us  now  together  ? 

Lopez. 

Well,  not  I. 

I  may  be  there  anon,  but  first  I  go 
To  the  lower  prison.  There  is  strict  command 
That  all  our  Gypsy  prisoners  shall  to-night 
Be  lodged  within  the  fort.  They  ’ve  forged  enough 
Of  balls  and  bullets,  —  used  up  all  the  metal. 

At  morn  to-morrow  they  must  carry  stones 
Up  the  south  tower.  ’T  is  a  fine  stalwart  band, 

Fit  for  the  hardest  tasks.  Some  say,  the  queen 
Would  have  the  Gypsies  banished  with  the  Jews. 
Some  say,  ’t  were  better  harness  them  for  work. 
They ’d  feed  on  any  filth  and  save  the  Spaniard. 
Some  say  —  but  I  must  go.  ’T  will  soon  be  time 
To  head  the  escort.  We  shall  meet  again. 

Blasco. 

Go,  sir,  with  God  ( exit  Lopez).  A  very  proper  man. 
And  soldierly.  But,  for  this  banishment 
Some  men  are  hot  on,  it  ill  pleases  me. 

The  Jews,  now  (sirs,  if  any  Christian  here 
Had  Jews  for  ancestors,  I  blame  him  not; 

We  cannot  all  be  Goths  of  Aragon),  — 

Jews  are  not  fit  for  heaven,  but  on  earth 

They  are  most  useful.  ’T  is  the  same  with  mules, 

Horses,  or  oxen,  or  with  any  pig 

Except  Saint  Anthony’s.  They  are  useful  here 

(The  Jews,  I  mean)  though  they  may  go  to  lielL 

And,  look  you,  useful  sins,  —  why  Providence 


54 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Sends  Jews  to  do  ’em,  saving  Christian  souls. 

The  very  Gypsies,  curbed  and  harnessed  well, 

Would  make  draught  cattle,  feed  on  vermin  too, 

Cost  less  than  grazing  brutes,  and  turn  bad  food 
To  handsome  carcasses ;  sweat  at  the  forge 
For  little  wages,  and  well  drilled  and  flogged 
Might  work  like  slaves,  some  Spaniards  looking  on. 

I  deal  in  plate,  and  am  no  priest  to  say 

What  God  may  mean,  save  when  he  means  plain  sense  \ 

But  when  he  sent  the  Gypsies  wandering 

In  punishment  because  they  sheltered  not 

Our  Lady  and  Saint  Joseph  (and  no  doubt 

Stole  the  small  ass  they  fled  with  into  Egypt), 

Why  send  them  here  ?  ’T  is  plain  he  saw  the  use 
They  ’d  be  to  Spaniards.  Shall  we  banish  them. 

And  tell  God  we  know  better  ?  ’T  is  a  sin. 

They  talk  of  vermin  ;  but,  sirs,  vermin  large 
Were  made  to  eat  the  small,  or  else  to  eat 
The  noxious  rubbish,  and  picked  Gypsy  men 
Might  serve  in  war  to  climb,  be  killed,  and  fall, 

To  make  an  easy  ladder.  Once  I  saw 
A  Gypsy  sorcerer,  at  a  spring  and  grasp, 

Kill  one  who  came  to  seize  him :  talk  of  strength ! 

Nay,  swiftness  too,  for  while  we  crossed  ourselves 
He  vanished  like,  —  say,  like  .... 

Juan. 

A  swift  black  snake, 
Or  like  a  living  arrow  fledged  with  will. 

Blasco. 

Why,  did  you  see  him,  pray  ? 

Juan. 

Not  then,  but  now, 

As  painters  see  the  many  in  the  one. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


55 


We  have  a  Gypsy  in  Bedmar  whose  frame 
Nature  compacted  with  such  fine  selection, 

’T  would  yield  a  dozen  types  :  all  Spanish  knights, 
From  him  who  slew  Rolando  at  the  pass 
Up  to  the  mighty  Cid ;  all  deities, 

Thronging  Olympus  in  fine  attitudes ; 

Or  all  hell’s  heroes  whom  the  poet  saw 
Tremble  like  lions,  writhe  like  demigods. 

Host. 

Pause  not  yet,  Juan,  —  more  hyperbole  ! 

Shoot  upward  still  and  flare  in  meteors 
Before  thou  sink  to  earth  in  dull  brown  fack 

Blasco. 

Nay,  give  me  fact,  high  shooting  suits  not  me. 

I  never  stare  to  look  for  soaring  larks. 

What  is  this  Gypsy  ? 

Host. 

Chieftain  of  a  band, 

The  Moor’s  allies,  whom  full  a  month  ago 
Our  Duke  surprised  and  brought  as  captives  home. 
He  needed  smiths,  and  doubtless  the  brave  Moor 
Has  missed  some  useful  scouts  and  archers  too. 
Juan’s  fantastic  pleasure  is  to  watch 
These  Gypsies  forging,  and  to  hold  discourse 
With  this  great  chief,  whom  he  transforms  at  will 
To  sage  or  warrior,  and  like  the  sun 
Plays  daily  at  fallacious  alchemy, 

Turns  sand  to  gold  and  dewy  spider-webs 
To  myriad  rainbows.  Still  the  sand  is  sand, 

And  still  in  sober  shade  you  see  the  web. 

'T  is  so,  I  ’ll  wager,  with  his  Gypsy  chief,  — 

A  piece  of  stalwart  cunning,  nothing  more. 


56 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Juan. 

No !  My  invention  had  been  all  too  poor 
To  frame  this  Zarca  as  I  saw  him  first. 

’T  was  when  they  stripped  him.  In  his  chieftain’s  gear, 
Amidst  his  men  he  seemed  a  royal  barb 
Followed  by  wild-maned  Andalusian  colts. 

He  had  a  necklace  of  a  strange  device 
In  finest  gold  of  unknown  workmanship, 

But  delicate  as  Moorish,  fit  to  kiss 
Fedalma’s  neck,  and  play  in  shadows  there. 

He  wore  fine  mail,  a  rich-wrought  sword  and  belt, 

And  on  his  surcoat  black  a  broidered  torch, 

A  pine-branch  flaming,  grasped  by  two  dark  hands. 

But  when  they  stripped  him  of  his  ornaments 
It  was  the  bawbles  lost  their  grace,  not  he. 

His  eyes,  his  mouth,  his  nostril,  all  inspired 
With  scorn  that  mastered  utterance  of  scorn, 

With  power  to  check  all  rage  until  it  turned 
To  ordered  force,  unleashed  on  chosen  prey,  — 

It  seemed  the  soul  within  him  made  his  limbs 
And  made  them  grand.  The  bawbles  were  well  gone. 

He  stood  the  more  a  king,  when  bared  to  man. 

Blasco. 

Maybe.  But  nakedness  is  bad  for  trade, 

And  is  not  decent.  Well-wrought  metal,  sir, 

Is  not  a  bawble.  Had  you  seen  the  camp, 

The  royal  camp  at  Velez  Malaga, 

Ponce  de  Leon  and  the  other  dukes, 

The  king  himself  and  all  his  thousand  knights 
For  body-guard,  ’t  would  not  have  left  you  breath 
To  praise  a  Gypsy  thus.  A  man ’s  a  man ; 

But  when  you  see  a  king,  you  see  the  work 
Of  many  thousand  men.  King  Ferdinand 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


67 


Bears  a  fine  presence,  and  hath  proper  limbs ; 

But  what  though  he  were  shrunken  as  a  relic  ? 
You  ’d  see  the  gold  and  gems  that  cased  him  o’er, 
And  all  the  pages  round  him  in  brocade, 

And  all  the  lords,  themselves  a  sort  of  kings, 
Doing  him  reverence.  That  strikes  an  awe 
Into  a  common  man,  - —  especially 
A  judge  of  plate. 

Host. 

Faith,  very  wisely  said. 

Purge  thy  speech,  Juan.  It  is  over-full 
Of  this  same  Gypsy.  Praise  the  Catholic  King. 
And  come  now,  let  us  see  the  juggler’s  skill. 


The  Tla$a  Santiago. 

,T  is  daylight  still,  but  now  the  golden  cross 
Uplifted  by  the  angel  on  the  dome 
Stands  rayless  in  calm  color  clear-defined 
Against  the  northern  blue  ;  from  turrets  high 
The  flitting  splendor  sinks  with  folded  wing 
Dark-hid  till  morning,  and  the  battlements 
Wear  soft  relenting  whiteness  mellowed  o’er 
By  summers  generous  and  winters  bland. 

Now  in  the  east  the  distance  casts  its  veil, 

And  gazes  with  a  deepening  earnestness. 

The  old  rain-fretted  mountains  in  their  robes 
Of  shadow-broken  gray ;  the  rounded  hills 
Eeddened  with  blood  of  Titans,  whose  huge  limbs, 
Entombed  within,  feed  full  the  hardy  flesh 
Of  cactus  green  and  blue,  broad-sworded  aloes  j 
The  cypress  soaring  black  above  the  lines 
Of  white  court-walls ;  the  jointed  sugar-canes 


I 


68 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Pale-golden  with  their  feathers  motionless 
In  the  warm  quiet ;  —  all  thought-teaching  form 
Utters  itself  in  firm  unshimmering  hues. 

For  the  great  rock  has  screened  the  westering  sun 
That  still  on  plains  beyond  streams  vaporous  gold 
Among  the  branches  ;  and  within  Bedmar 
Has  come  the  time  of  sweet  serenity 
When  color  glows  unglittering,  and  the  soul 
Of  visible  things  shows  silent  happiness, 

As  that  of  lovers  trusting  though  apart. 

The  ripe-cheeked  fruits,  the  crimson-petalled  flowers 
The  winged  life  that  pausing  seems  a  gem 
Cunningly  carven  on  the  dark  green  leaf ; 

The  face  of  man  with  hues  supremely  blent 
To  difference  fine  as  of  a  voice  ’mid  sounds :  — 

Each  lovely  light-dipped  thing  seems  to  emerge 
Flushed  gravely  from  baptismal  sacrament. 

All  beauteous  existence  rests,  yet  wakes, 

Lies  still,  yet  conscious,  with  clear  open  eyes 
And  gentle  breath  and  mild  suffused  joy. 

’Tis  day,  but  day  that  falls  like  melody 
Bepeated  on  a  string  with  graver  tones,  — 

Tones  such  as  linger  in  a  long  farewell. 

The  Pla$a  widens  in  the  passive  air,  — 

The  PlaQa  Santiago,  where  the  church, 

A  mosque  converted,  shows  an  eyeless  face 
Bed-checkered,  faded,  doing  penance  still,  — 
Bearing  with  Moorish  arch  the  imaged  saint, 
Apostle,  baron,  Spanish  warrior, 

Whose  charger’s  hoofs  trample  the  turbaned  dead, 
Whose  banner  with  the  Cross,  the  bloody  sword, 
Flashes  athwart  the  Moslem’s  glazing  eye, 

And  mocks  his  trust  in  Allah  who  forsakes. 

Up  to  the  church  the  Placja  gently  slopes. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


59 


In  shape  most  like  the  pious  palmer’s  shell, 

Girdled  with  low  white  houses  ;  high  above 
Tower  the  strong  fortress  and  sharp-angled  wall 
And  well-flanked  castle  gate.  From  o’er  the  roofs. 
And  from  the  shadowed  patios  cool,  there  spreads 
The  breath  of  flowers  and  aromatic  leaves 
Soothing  the  sense  with  bliss  indefinite,  — 

A  baseless  hope,  a  glad  presentiment, 

That  curves  the  lip  more  softly,  fills  the  eye 
With  more  indulgent  beam.  And  so  it  soothes, 

So  gently  sways  the  pulses  of  the  crowd 
Who  make  a  zone  about  the  central  spot 
Chosen  by  Eoldan  for  his  theatre. 

Maids  with  arched  eyebrows,  delicate-pencilled,  dark 
Fold  their  round  arms  below  the  kerchief  full ; 

Men  shoulder  little  girls  ;  and  grandames  gray, 

But  muscular  still,  hold  babies  on  their  arms  ; 

While  mothers  keep  the  stout-legged  boys  in  front 
Against  their  skirts,  as  old  Greek  pictures  show 
The  Glorious  Mother  with  the  Boy  divine. 

Youths  keep  the  places  for  themselves,  and  roll 
Large  lazy  eyes,  and  call  recumbent  dogs 
(For  reasons  deep  below  the  reach  of  thought). 

The  old  men  cough  with  purpose,  wish  to  hint 
Wisdom  within  that  cheapens  jugglery, 

Maintain  a  neutral  air,  and  knit  their  brows 
In  observation.  None  are  quarrelsome, 

Noisy,  or  very  merry ;  for  their  blood 
Moves  slowly  into  fervor, — they  rejoice 
Like  those  dark  birds  that  sweep  with  heavy  wing* 
Cheering  their  mates  with  melancholy  cries. 

But  now  the  gilded  balls  begin  to  play 
In  rhythmic  numbers,  ruled  by  practice  fine 
Of  eye  and  muscle :  all  the  juggler’s  form 


60 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Consents  harmonious  in  swift-gliding  change, 
Easily  forward  stretched  or  backward  bent 
With  lightest  step  and  movement  circular 
Bound  a  fixed  point :  ’t  is  not  the  old  Roldan  now 
The  dull,  hard,  weary,  miserable  man, 

The  soul  all  parched  to  languid  appetite 
And  memory  of  desire :  ’t  is  wondrous  force 
That  moves  in  combination  multiform 
Towards  conscious  ends  :  ’t  is  Roldan  glorious, 
Holding  all  eyes  like  any  meteor, 

King  of  the  moment  save  when  Annibal 
Divides  the  scene  and  plays  the  comic  part, 

Gazing  with  blinking  glances  up  and  down, 
Dancing  and  throwing  naught  and  catching  it. 
With  mimicry  as  merry  as  the  tasks 
Of  penance-working  shades  in  Tartarus. 

Pablo  stands  passive,  and  a  space  apart, 

Holding  a  viol,  waiting  for  command. 

Music  must  not  be  wasted,  but  must  rise 
As  needed  climax ;  and  the  audience 
Is  growing  with  late  comers.  Juan  now, 

And  the  familiar  Host,  with  Blasco  broad, 

Find  way  made  gladly  to  the  inmost  round 
Studded  with  heads.  Lorenzo  knits  the  crowd 
Into  one  family  by  showing  all 
Good-will  and  recognition.  Juan  casts 
His  large  and  rapid-measuring  glance  around ; 

But  —  with  faint  quivering,  transient  as  a  breath 
Shaking  a  flame- — his  eyes  make  sudden  pause 
Where  by  the  jutting  angle  of  a  street 
Castle-ward  leading,  stands  a  female  form, 

A  kerchief  pale  square-drooping  o’er  the  brow, 
About  her  shoulders  dim  brown  serge,  —  in  garb 
Most  like  a  peasant-woman  from  the  vale. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


61 


Who  might  have  lingered  after  marketing 
To  see  the  show.  What  thrill  mysterious, 
Ray-borne  from  orb  to  orb  of  conscious  eyes, 

The  swift  observing  sweep  of  Juan’s  glance 
Arrests  an  instant,  then  with  prompting  fresh 
Diverts  it  lastingly  ?  He  turns  at  once 
To  watch  the  gilded  balls,  and  nod  and  smile 
At  little  round  Pepita,  blondest  maid 
In  all  Bedmar,  —  Pepita,  lair  yet  flecked, 

Saucy  of  lip  and  nose,  of  hair  as  red 
As  breasts  of  robins  stepping  on  the  snow,  — 

Who  stands  in  front  with  little  tapping  feet. 

And  baby-dimpled  hands  that  hide  enclosed 
Those  sleeping  crickets,  the  dark  castanets. 

But  soon  the  gilded  balls  have  ceased  to  play, 

And  Annibal  is  leaping  through  the  hoops 
That  turn  to  twelve,  meeting  him  as  he  flies 
In  the  swift  circle.  Shuddering  he  leaps, 

But  with  each  spring  flies  swift  and  swifter  still 
To  loud  and  louder  shouts,  while  the  great  hoops 
Are  changed  to  smaller.  Now  the  crowd  is  fired. 
The  motion  swift,  the  living  victim  urged, 

The  imminent  failure  and  repeated  scape 

Hurry  all  pulses  and  intoxicate 

With  subtle  wine  of  passion  many-mixt. 

’T  is  all  about  a  monkey  leaping  hard 
Till  near  to  gasping ;  but  it  serves  as  well 
As  the  great  circus  or  arena  dire, 

Where  these  are  lacking.  Roldan  cautiously 
Slackens  the  leaps  and  lays  the  hoops  to  rest, 

And  Annibal  retires  with  reeling  brain 

And  backward  stagger,  —  pity,  he  could  not  smile ! 

Now  Roldan  spreads  his  carpet,  now  he  shows 
Strange  metamorphoses :  the  pebble  black 


62 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Changes  to  whitest  egg  within  his  hand ; 

A  staring  rabbit,  with  retreating  ears, 

Is  swallowed  by  the  air  and  vanishes ; 

He  tells  men’s  thoughts  about  the  shaken  dice, 
Their  secret  choosings ;  makes  the  white  beans  pass 
With  causeless  act  sublime  from  cup  to  cup 
Turned  empty  on  the  ground,  —  diablerie 
That  pales  the  girls  and  puzzles  all  the  boys : 

These  tricks  are  samples,  hinting  to  the  town 
Roldan’s  great  mastery.  He  tumbles  next, 

And  Annibal  is  called  to  mock  each  feat 
With  arduous  comicality  and  save 
By  rule  romantic  the  great  public  mind 
(And  Roldan’s  body)  from  too  serious  strain. 


But  with  the  tumbling,  lest  the  feats  should  fail, 

And  so  need  veiling  in  a  haze  of  sound, 

Pablo  awakes  the  viol  and  the  bow,  — 

The  masculine  bow  that  draws  the  woman’s  heart 
From  out  the  strings  and  makes  them  cry,  yearn,  plead. 
Tremble,  exult,  with  mystic  union 
Of  joy  acute  and  tender  suffering. 

To  play  the  viol  and  discreetly  mix 
Alternate  with  the  bow’s  keen  biting  tones 
The  throb  responsive  to  the  finger’s  touch, 

Was  rarest  skill  that  Pablo  half  had  caught 
From  an  old  blind  and  wandering  Catalan  j 
The  other  half  was  rather  heritage 
From  treasure  stored  by  generations  past 
In  winding  chambers  of  receptive  sense. 


The  winged  sounds  exalt  the  thick-pressed  crowd! 
With  a  new  pulse  in  common,  blending  all 
The  gazing  life  into  one  larger  soul 
With  dimly  widened  consciousness  :  as  waves 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


63 


In  heightened  movement  tell  of  waves  far  off. 

And  the  light  changes  ;  westward  stationed  clouds, 
The  sun’s  ranged  outposts,  luminous  message  spread^ 
Rousing  quiescent  things  to  doff  their  shade 
And  show  themselves  as  added  audience. 

Now  Pablo,  letting  fall  the  eager  bow, 

Solicits  softer  murmurs  from  the  strings, 

And  now  above  them  pours  a  wondrous  voice 
(Such  as  Greek  reapers  heard  in  Sicily) 

With  wounding  rapture  in  it,  like  love’s  arrows; 

And  clear  upon  clear  air  as  colored  gems 
Dropped  in  a  crystal  cup  of  water  pure, 

Fall  words  of  sadness,  simple,  lyrical  : 

Spring  comes  hither , 

Buds  the  rose  ; 

Boses  wither , 

Sweet  spring  goes. 

Ojald,  would  she  carry  me! 

Summer  soars,  — 

Wide-winged  day 

White  light  pours, 

Flies  away . 

Ojald,  would  he  carry  me  / 

Soft  winds  blow, 

Westward  born, 

Onward  go 

Toward  the  morn. 

Ojald,  would  they  carry  me! 

Sweet  birds  sing 
O’er  the  graves, 

Then  take  wing 
O’er  the  waves. 

Ojald,  would  they  carry  me/ 


84 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


When  the  voice  paused  and  left  the  viol’s  note 
To  plead  forsaken,  ’t  was  as  when  a  cloud, 

Hiding  the  sun,  makes  all  the  leaves  and  flowers 
Shiver.  But  when  with  measured  change  the  strings 
Had  taught  regret  new  longing,  clear  again, 

Welcome  as  hope  recovered,  flowed  the  voice. 

Warm  whispering  through  the  slender  olive  leaves 
Came  to  me  a  gentle  sound, 

Whispering  of  a  secret  found 
In  the  clear  sunshine  ’ mid  the  golden  sheaves ; 

Said  it  was  sleeping  for  me  in  the  morn , 

Called  it  gladness ,  called  it  joy, 

Drew  me  on  —  “  Come  hither,  boy  ”  — 

To  where  the  blue  icings  rested  on  the  corn . 

I  thought  the  gentle  sound  had  ichispered  true ,  — * 
Thought  the  little  heaven  mine, 

Leaned  to  clutch  the  thing  divine, 

And  saw  the  blue  wings  melt  within  the  blue . 

The  long  notes  linger  on  the  trembling  air, 

With  subtle  penetration  enter  all 

The  myriad  corridors  of  the  passionate  soul, 

Message-like  spread,  and  answering  action  rouse. 

Hot  angular  jigs  that  warm  the  chilly  limbs 
In  hoary  northern  mists,  but  action  curved 
To  soft  andante  strains  pitched  plaintively. 
Vibrations  sympathetic  stir  all  limbs : 

Old  men  live  backward  in  their  dancing  prime, 

And  move  in  memory  ;  small  legs  and  arms  * 

With  pleasant  agitation  purposeless 
Go  up  and  down  like  pretty  fruits  in  gales. 

All  long  in  common  for  the  expressive  act 

Yet  wait  for  it ;  as  in  the  olden  time 

Men  waited  for  the  bard  to  tell  their  thought. 


**  A  figure  lithe,  all  white  and  saffron  robed. 
Flashed  right  across  the  circle.” 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


65 


wThe  dance  !  the  dance  !  ”  is  shouted  all  around. 
Now  Pablo  lifts  the  bow,  Pepita  now, 

Ready  as  bird  that  sees  the  sprinkled  corn, 

When  Juan  nods  and  smiles,  puts  forth  her  foot 
And  lifts  her  arm  to  wake  the  castanets. 

Juan  advances,  too,  from  out  the  ring 

And  bends  to  quit  his  lute ;  for  now  the  scene 

Is  empty ;  Roldan,  weary,  gathers  pence, 

Followed  by  Annibal  with  purse  and  stick. 

The  carpet  lies  a  colored  isle  untrod, 

Inviting  feet :  “  The  dance,  the  dance,”  resounds, 
The  bow  entreats  with  slow  melodic  strain, 

And  all  the  air  with  expectation  yearns. 

Sudden,  with  gliding  motion  like  a  flame 
That  through  dim  vapor  makes  a  path  of  glory, 

A  figure  lithe,  all  white  and  saffron-robed, 

Flashed  right  across  the  circle,  and  now  stood 
With  ripened  arms  uplift  and  regal  head, 

Like  some  tall  flower  whose  dark  and  intense  heart 
Lies  half  within  a  tulip-tinted  cup. 

J uan  stood  fixed  and  pale ;  Pepita  stepped 
Backward  within  the  ring :  the  voices  fell 
From  shouts  insistent  to  more  passive  tones 
Half  meaning  welcome,  half  astonishment. 

“  Lady  Fedalma !  —  will  she  dance  for  us  ?  n 

But  she,  sole  swayed  by  impulse  passionate, 

Feeling  all  life  was  music  and  all  eyes 

The  warming,  quickening  light  that  music  makes, 

Moved  as,  in  dance  religious,  Miriam, 

When  on  the  Red  Sea  shore  she  raised  her  voice, 
And  led  the  chorus  of  her  people’s  joy ; 

Or  as  the  Trojan  maids  that  reverent  sang 

a 


66 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Watching  the  sorrow-crowned  Hecuba : 

Moved  in  slow  curves  voluminous,  gradual. 

Feeling  and  action  flowing  into  one, 

In  Eden’s  natural  taintless  marriage-bond ; 
Ardently  modest,  sensuously  pure, 

With  young  delight  that  wonders  at  itself 
And  throbs  as  innocent  as  opening  flowers, 
Knowing  not  comment,  —  soilless,  beautiful. 

The  spirit  in  her  gravely  glowing  face 
With  sweet  community  informs  her  limbs, 

Filling  their  fine  gradation  with  the  breath 
Of  virgin  majesty ;  as  full  vo welled  words 
Are  new  impregnate  with  the  master’s  thought. 
Even  the  chance-strayed  delicate  tendrils  black, 
That  backward  ’scape  from  out  her  wreathing  hair, 
Even  the  pliant  folds  that  cling  transverse 
When  with  obliquely  soaring  bend  altern 
She  seems  a  goddess  quitting  earth  again  — 

(father  expression  —  a  soft  undertone 

And  resonance  exquisite  from  the  grand  chord 

Of  her  harmoniously  bodied  soul. 

At  first  a  reverential  silence  guards 
The  eager  senses  of  the  gazing  crowd : 

They  hold  their  breath,  and  live  by  seeing  her. 

But  soon  the  admiring  tension  finds  relief,  — 

Sighs  of  delight,  applausive  murmurs  low, 

And  stirrings  gentle  as  of  eared  corn 
Or  seed-bent  grasses,  when  the  ocean’s  breath 
Spreads  landward.  Even  Juan  is  impelled 
By  the  swift-travelling  movement :  fear  and  doubt 
Give  way  before  the  hurrying  energy ; 

He  takes  his  lute  and  strikes  in  fellowship, 

Filling  more  full  the  rill  of  melody 
Raised  ever  and  anon  to  clearest  flood 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


67 


by  Pablo’s  voice,  tbat  dies  away  too  soon, 

Like  the  sweet  blackbird’s  fragmentary  chant, 

Yet  wakes  again,  with  varying  rise  and  fall, 

In  songs  that  seem  emergent  memories 
Prompting  brief  utterance,  —  little  cancions 
Ynd  villancicos,  Andalusia-born. 

Pablo  (sings). 

It  was  in  the  prime 
Of  the  sweet  Spring-time. 

In  the  linnet’s  throat 
Trembled  the  love-note , 

And  the  love-stirred  air 
Thrilled  the  blossoms  there. 

Little  shadows  danced 
Each  a  tiny  elf 
Happy  in  large  light 
And  the  thinnest  self. 

It  was  but  a  minute 
In  a  far-off  Spring , 

But  each  gentle  thing , 

Sweetly -wooing  linnet , 

Soft-thrilled  hawthorn-tree, 

Happy  shadowy  elf 
With  the  thinnest  self 
Live  still  on  in  me. 

Oh,  the  sweet,  sweet  prime 
Of  the  past  Spring-time  ! 

And  still  the  light  is  changing :  high  above 
Float  soft  pink  clouds ;  others  with  deeper  flush 
Stretch  like  flamingoes  bending  toward  the  south. 
Comes  a  more  solemn  brilliance  o’er  the  sky, 

4.  meaning  more  intense  upon  the  air,  — 


68 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  inspiration  of  the  dying  day. 

And  Juan  now,  when  Pablo’s  notes  subside, 

Soothes  the  regretful  ear,  and  breaks  the  pause 
With  masculine  voice  in  deep  antiphony. 

Juan  (sings). 

Day  is  dying  !  Float ,  O  song, 

Down  the  westward  river , 

Requiem  chanting  to  the  Day ,  — 

Day ,  the  mighty  Giver. 

Pierced  by  shafts  of  Time  he  bleeds 
Melted  rubies  sending 

Through  the  river  and  the  sky, 

Earth  and  heaven  blending  • 

All  the  long-drawn  earthy  banks 
Up  to  cloud-land  lifting : 

Slow  between  them  drifts  the  swan , 

’ Twixt  two  heavens  drifting. 

Wings  half  open,  like  a  Jlow’r 
Inly  deeper  flushing , 

Neck  and  breast  as  virgin’ s  pure,— 

Virgin  proudly  blushing. 

Day  is  dying  !  Float ,  O  swan , 

Down  the  ruby  river ; 

Follow ,  song ,  in  requiem 
To  the  mighty  Giver. 

The  exquisite  hour,  the  ardor  of  the  crowd, 

The  strains  more  plenteous,  and  the  gathering  might 
Of  action  passionate  where  no  effort  is, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


But  self's  poor  gates  open  to  rushing  power 
That  blends  the  inward  ebb  and  outward  vast, 

All  gathering  influences  culminate 

And  urge  Fedalma.  Earth  and  heaven  seem  one, 

Life  a  glad  trembling  on  the  outer  edge 

Of  unknown  rapture.  Swifter  now  she  moves, 

Filling  the  measure  with  a  double  beat 

And  widening  circle ;  now  she  seems  to  glow 

With  more  declared  presence,  glorified. 

Circling,  she  lightly  bends  and  lifts  on  high 
The  multitudinous-sounding  tambourine, 

And  makes  it  ring  and  boom,  then  lifts  it  higher 
Stretching  her  left  arm  beauteous  ;  now  the  crowd 
Exultant  shouts,  forgetting  poverty 
In  the  rich  moment  of  possessing  her. 

But  sudden,  at  one  point,  the  exultant  throng 
Is  pushed  and  hustled,  and  then  thrust  apart : 
Something  approaches,  —  something  cuts  the  ring 
Of  jubilant  idlers,  —  startling  as  a  streak 
From  alien  wounds  across  the  blooming  flesh 
Of  careless  sporting  childhood.  ’T  is  the  band 
Of  Gfypsy  prisoners.  Soldiers  lead  the  van 
And  make  sparse  flanking  guard,  aloof  surveyed 
By  gallant  Lopez,  stringent  in  command. 

The  Gypsies  chained  in  couples,  all  save  one, 
Walk  in  dark  file  with  grand  bare  legs  and  arms 
And  savage  melancholy  in  their  eyes 
That  star-like  gleam  from  out  black  clouds  of  hair 
Now  they  are  full  in  sight,  and  now  they  stretch 
Bight  to  the  centre  of  the  open  space. 

Fedalma  now,  with  gentle  wheeling  sweep 
Beturning,  like  the  loveliest  of  the  Hours 
Strayed  from  her  sisters,  truant  lingering, 

Faces  again  the  centre,  swings  again 


TO  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

The  uplifted  tambourine . 

When  lo  !  with  sound 

Stupendous  throbbing,  solemn  as  a  voice 
Sent  by  the  invisible  choir  of  all  the  dead, 

Tolls  the  great  passing  bell  that  calls  to  prayer 

For  souls  departed :  at  the  mighty  beat 

It  seems  the  light  sinks  awe-struck,  —  ’t  is  the  note 

Of  the  sun’s  burial ;  speech  and  action  pause ; 

Religious  silence  and  the  holy  sign 

Of  everlasting  memories  (the  sign 

Of  death  that  turned  to  more  diffusive  life) 

Pass  o’er  the  Pla§a.  Little  children  gaze 
With  lips  apart,  and  feel  the  unknown  god ; 

And  the  most  men  and  women  pray.  Not  all. 

The  soldiers  pray ;  the  Gypsies  stand  unmoved 
As  pagan  statues  with  proud  level  gaze. 

But  he  who  wears  a  solitary  chain 
Heading  the  file,  has  turned  to  face  Fedalma. 

She  motionless,  with  arm  uplifted,  guards 
The  tambourine  aloft  (lest,  sudden-lowered, 

Its  trivial  jingle  mar  the  duteous  pause), 

Reveres  the  general  prayer,  but  prays  not,  stand? 

With  level  glance  meeting  that  Gypsy’s  eyes, 

That  seem  to  her  the  sadness  of  the  world 
Rebuking  her,  the  great  bell’s  hidden  thought 
Now  first  unveiled, — the  sorrows  unredeemed 
Of  races  outcast,  scorned,  and  wandering. 

Why  does  he  look  at  her  ?  why  she  at  him  ? 

As  if  the  meeting  light  between  their  eyes 
Made  permanent  union  ?  His  deep-knit  brow, 

Inflated  nostril,  scornful  lip  compressed, 

Seem  a  dark  hieroglyph  of  coming  fate 
Written  before  her.  Father  Isidor 
Had  terrible  eyes,  and  was  her  enemy ; 

She  knew  it  and  defied  him ;  all  her  soul 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


V 


Rounded  and  hardened  in  its  separateness 
When  they  encountered.  But  this  prisoner,  — 

This  Gypsy,  passing,  gazing  casually,  — 

Was  he  her  enemy  too  ?  She  stood  all  quelled, 

The  impetuous  joy  that  hurried  in  her  veins 
Seemed  backward  rushing  turned  to  chillest  awe, 
Uneasy  wonder,  and  a  vague  self-doubt. 

The  minute  brief  stretched  measureless,  dream-filled 
By  a  dilated  new-frauglit  consciousness. 

Now  it  was  gone ;  the  pious  murmur  ceased, 

The  Gypsies  all  moved  onward  at  command 
And  careless  noises  blent  confusedly. 

But  the  ring  closed  again,  and  many  ears 
Waited  for  Pablo’s  music,  many  eyes 
Turned  towards  the  carpet :  it  lay  bare  and  dim, 
Twilight  was  there,  —  the  bright  Fedalma  gone. 


A  handsome  room  in  the  Castle.  On  a  table  a  rich 

jewel-casket. 

Silva  had  dropped  his  mail  and  with  it  all 
The  heavier  harness  of  his  warlike  cares. 

He  had  not  seen  Fedalma ;  miser-like 
He  hoarded  through  the  hour  a  costlier  joy 
By  longing  oft-repressed.  Now  it  was  earned; 
And  with  observance  wonted  he  would  send 
To  ask  admission.  Spanish  gentlemen 
Who  wooed  fair  dames  of  noble  ancestry 
Did  homage  with  rich  tunics  and  slashed  sleeves 
And  outward-surging  linen’s  costly  snow ; 

With  broidered  scarf  transverse,  and  rosary 
Handsomely  wrought  to  tit  high-blooded  prayer; 
So  hinting  in  how  deep  respect  they  held 


72 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


That  self  they  threw  before  their  lady’s  feet. 

And  Silva  —  that  Fedalma’s  rate  should  stand 
No  jot  below  the  highest,  that  her  love 
Might  seem  to  all  the  royal  gift  it  was  — 

Turned  every  trifle  in  his  mien  and  garb 
To  scrupulous  language,  uttering  to  the  world 
That  since  she  loved  him  he  went  carefully, 

Bearing  a  thing  so  precious  in  his  hand. 

A  man  of  high-wrought  strain,  fastidious 
In  his  acceptance,  dreading  all  delight 
That  speedy  dies  and  turns  to  carrion : 

His  senses  much  exacting,  deep  instilled 
With  keen  imagination’s  difficult  needs ;  — 

Like  strong-limbed  monsters  studded  o’er  with  eyes, 
Their  hunger  checked  by  overwhelming  vision, 

Or  that  fierce  lion  in  symbolic  dream 

Snatched  from  the  ground  by  wings  and  new-endowed 

With  a  man’s  thought-propelled  relenting  heart. 

Silva  was  both  the  lion  and  the  man  ; 

First  hesitating  shrank,  then  fiercely  sprang, 

Or  having  sprung,  turned  pallid  at  his  deed 
And  loosed  the  prize,  paying  his  blood  for  naught. 

A  nature  half-transformed,  with  qualities 
That  oft  bewrayed  each  other,  elements 
Not  blent  but  struggling,  breeding  strange  effects, 
Passing  the  reckoning  of  his  friends  or  foes. 

Haughty  and  generous,  grave  and  passionate ; 

With  tidal  moments  of  devoutest  awe, 

Sinking  anon  to  furthest  ebb  of  doubt ; 

Deliberating  ever,  till  the  sting 
Of  a  recurrent  ardor  made  him  rush 
Bight  against  reasons  that  himself  had  drilled 
And  marshalled  painfully.  A  spirit  framed 
Too  proudly  special  for  obedience, 

Too  subtly  pondering  for  mastery : 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


7E 


Born  of  a  goddess  with  a  mortal  sire, 

Heir  of  flesh-fettered,  weak  divinity, 

Doom-gifted  with  long  resonant  consciousness 
And  perilous  heightening  of  the  sentient  soul. 

But  look  less  curiously  :  life  itself 

May  not  express  us  all,  may  leave  the  worst 

And  the  best  too,  like  tunes  in  mechanism 

Never  awaked.  In  various  catalogues 

Objects  stand  variously.  Silva  stands 

As  a  young  Spaniard,  handsome,  noble,  brave. 

With  titles  many,  high  in  pedigree ; 

Or,  as  a  nature  quiveringly  poised 
In  reach  of  storms,  whose  qualities  may  turn 
To  murdered  virtues  that  still  walk  as  ghosts 
Within  the  shuddering  soul  and  shriek  remorse ; 
Or,  as  a  lover  ....  In  the  screening  time 
Of  purple  blossoms,  when  the  petals  crowd 
And  softly  crush  like  cherub  cheeks  in  heaven, 
Who  thinks  of  greenly  withered  fruit  and  worms  ? 
Oh  the  warm  southern  spring  is  beauteous ! 

And  in  love’s  spring  all  good  seems  possible : 

No  threats,  all  promise,  brooklets  ripple  full 
And  bathe  the  rushes,  vicious  crawling  things 
Are  pretty  eggs,  the  sun  shines  graciously 
And  parches  not,  the  silent  rain  beats  warm 
As  childhood’s  kisses,  days  are  young  and  grow, 
And  earth  seems  in  its  sweet  beginning  time 
Fresh  made  for  two  who  live  in  Paradise. 

Silva  is  in  love’s  spring,  its  freshness  breathed 
Within  his  soul  along  the  dusty  ways 
While  marching  homeward ;  ’t  is  around  him  now 
As  in  a  garden  fenced  in  for  delight,  — 

And  he  may  seek  delight.  Smiling  he  lifts 

A  whistle  from  his  belt,  but  lets  it  fall 

Ere  it  has  reached  his  lips,  jarred  by  the  sound 


74 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Of  ushers’  knocking;,  and  a  voice  that  craves 
Admission  for  the  Prior  of  San  Domingo. 

Prior  (entering). 

You  look  perturbed,  my  son.  I  thrust  myself 
Between  you  and  some  beckoning  intent 
That  wears  a  face  more  smiling  than  my  own. 

Don  Silva. 

Father,  enough  that  you  are  here.  I  wait, 

As  always,  your  commands,  —  nay,  should  have  sought 
An  early  audience. 


Prior. 

To  give,  I  trust, 

Good  reasons  for  your  change  of  policy  ? 


Don  Silva. 
Strong  reasons,  father. 


Prior. 

Ay,  but  are  they  good  ? 

I  have  known  reasons  strong,  but  strongly  evil. 

Don  Silva. 

’T  is  possible.  I  but  deliver  mine 

To  your  strict  judgment.  Late  despatches  sent 

With  urgence  by  the  Count  of  Bavien, 

No  hint  on  my  part  prompting,  with  besides 

The  testified  concurrence  of  the  king 

And  our  Grand  Master,  have  made  peremptory 

The  course  which  else  had  been  but  rational. 

Without  the  forces  furnished  by  allies 

The  siege  of  Guadix  would  be  madness.  More, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


75 


El  Zagal  has  his  eyes  upon  Bedm&r : 

Let  him  attempt  it :  in  three  weeks  from  hence 
The  Master  and  the  Lord  of  Aguilar 
Will  bring  their  forces.  We  shall  catch  the  Moors, 
The  last  gleaned  clusters  of  their  bravest  men, 

As  in  a  trap.  You  have  my  reasons,  father. 

Prior. 

And  they  sound  well.  But  free-tongued  rumor  adds 
A  pregnant  supplement,  —  in  substance  this : 

That  inclination  snatches  arguments 
To  make  indulgence  seem  judicious  choice ; 

That  you,  commanding  in  God’s  Holy  War, 

Lift  prayers  to  Satan  to  retard  the  fight 
And  give  you  time  for  feasting,  —  wait  a  siege, 

Call  daring  enterprise  impossible, 

Because  you ’d  marry !  You,  a  Spanish  duke, 
Christ’s  general,  would  marry  like  a  clown, 

Who,  selling  fodder  dearer  for  the  war, 

Is  all  the  merrier;  nay,  like  the  brutes, 

Who  know  no  awe  to  check  their  appetite, 

Coupling  ’mid  heaps  of  slain,  while  still  in  front 
The  battle  rages. 

Don  Silva. 

Bumor  on  your  lips 

Is  eloquent,  father. 

Prior. 

Is  she  true  ? 

.  Don  Silva. 

Perhaps. 

I  seek  to  justify  my  public  acts 

And  not  my  private  joy.  Before  the  world 

Enough  if  I  am  faithful  in  command. 


76 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Betray  not  by  my  deeds,  swerve  from  no  task 
My  knightly  vows  constrain  me  to :  herein 
I  ask  all  men  to  test  me. 

Prior. 

Knightly  vows  ? 

Is  it  by  their  constraint  that  you  must  marry  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Marriage  is  not  a  breach  of  them.  I  use 
A  sanctioned  liberty  ....  your  pardon,  father, 

I  need  not  teach  you  what  the  Church  decrees. 
But  facts  may  weaken  texts,  and  so  dry  up 
The  fount  of  eloquence.  The  Church  relaxed 
Our  Order’s  rule  before  I  took  the  vows. 

Prior. 

Ignoble  liberty !  you  snatch  your  rule 

Prom  what  God  tolerates,  not  what  he  loves  ?  — 

Inquire  what  lowest  offering  may  suffice, 

Cheapen  it  meanly  to  an  obolus, 

Buy,  and  then  count  the  coin  left  in  your  purse 
For  your  debauch  ?  —  Measure  obedience 
By  scantest  powers  of  feeble  brethren 
Whom  Holy  Church  indulges  ?  —  Ask  great  Law, 
The  rightful  Sovereign  of  the  human  soul, 

For  what  it  pardons,  not  what  it  commands? 

Oh  fallen  knighthood,  penitent  of  high  vows, 
Asking  a  charter  to  degrade  itself ! 

Such  poor  apology  of  rules  relaxed 
Blunts  not  suspicion  of  that  doubleness 
Your  enemies  tax  you  with. 

Don  Silva. 

Oh,  for  the  rest, 

Conscience  is  harder  than  our  enemies, 


« 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


77 


Knows  more,  accuses  with  more  nicety, 

Nor  needs  to  question  Humor  if  we  fall 
Below  the  perfect  model  of  our  thought. 

I  fear  no  outward  arbiter.  — You  smile? 

Prior. 

Ay,  at  the  contrast  ’twixt  your  portraiture 
And  the  true  image  of  your  conscience,  shown 
As  now  I  see  it  in  your  acts.  I  see 
A  drunken  sentinel  who  gives  alarm 
At  his  own  shadow,  but  when  scalers  snatch 
His  weapon  from  his  hand  smiles  idiot-like 
At  games  he  7s  dreaming  of. 

Don  Silva. 

A  parable ! 

The  husk  is  rough,  —  holds  something  bitter,  doubtless. 

Prior. 

Oh,  the  husk  gapes  with  meaning  over-ripe. 

You  boast  a  conscience  that  controls  your  deeds, 
Watches  your  knightly  armor,  guards  your  rank 
From  stain  of  treachery,  —  you,  helpless  slave, 

Whose  will  lies  nerveless  in  the  clutch  of  lust,  — 

Of  blind  mad  passion,  —  passion  itself  most  helpless, 
Storm-driven,  like  the  monsters  of  the  sea. 

O  famous  conscience ! 

Don  Silva. 

Pause  there !  Leave  unsaid 
Aught  that  will  match  that  text.  More  were  too  much; 
Even  from  holy  lips.  I  own  no  love 
But  such  as  guards  my  honor,  since  it  guards 
Piers  whom  I  love !  I  suffer  no  foul  words 
To  stain  the  gift  I  lay  before  her  feet; 

And,  being  hers,  my  honor  is  more  safe. 


78 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Prior. 

Verse-makers’  talk !  fit  for  a  world  of  rhymes, 

Where  facts  are  feigned  to  tickle  idle  ears, 

Where  good  and  evil  play  at  tournament 
And  end  in  amity,  —  a  world  of  lies,  — 

A  carnival  of  words  where  every  year 

Stale  falsehoods  serve  fresh  men.  Your  honor  safe  ? 

What  honor  has  a  man  with  double  bonds  ? 

Honor  is  shifting  as  the  shadows  are 
To  souls  that  turn  their  passions  into  laws. 

A  Christian  knight  who  weds  an  infidel .... 

Don  Silva  (fiercely). 

An  infidel ! 

Prior. 

May  one  day  spurn  the  Cross, 

And  call  that  honor !  —  one  day  find  his  sword 
Stained  with  his  brother’s  blood,  and  call  that  honor ! 
Apostates’  honor  ?  —  harlots’  chastity ! 

Renegades’  faithfulness  ?  —  Iscariot’s ! 

Don  Silva. 

Strong  words  and  burning ;  but  they  scorch  not  me. 
Fedalma  is  a  daughter  of  the  Church,  — 

Has  been  baptized  and  nurtured  in  the  faith. 

Prior. 

Ay,  as  a  thousand  Jewesses,  who  yet 
Are  brides  of  Satan  in  a  robe  of  flames. 

Don  Silva. 

Fedalma  is  no  Jewess,  bears  no  marks 
That  tell  of  Hebrew  blood. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


79 


Prior. 

She  bears  the  marks 
Of  races  unbaptized,  that  never  bowed 
Before  the  holy  signs,  were  never  moved 
By  stirrings  of  the  sacramental  gifts. 

Don  Silva  ( scornfully ). 

Holy  accusers  practise  palmistry, 

And,  other  witness  lacking,  read  the  skin. 

Prior. 

I  read  a  record  deeper  than  the  skin. 

What !  Shall  the  trick  of  nostrils  and  of  lips 
Descend  through  generations,  and  the  soul 
That  moves  within  our  frame  like  God  in  worlds  — « 
Convulsing,  urging,  melting,  withering  — 

Imprint  no  record,  leave  no  documents, 

Of  her  great  history  ?  Shall  men  bequeath 
The  fancies  of  their  palate  to  their  sons, 

And  shall  the  shudder  of  restraining  awe, 

The  slow-wept  tears  of  contrite  memory. 

Faith’s  prayerful  labor,  and  the  food  divine 
Of  fasts  ecstatic,  —  shall  these  pass  away 
Like  wind  upon  the  waters,  tracklessly  ? 

Shall  the  mere  curl  of  eyelashes  remain 
And  god-enshrining  symbols  leave  no  trace 
Of  tremors  reverent  ?  —  That  maiden’s  blood 
Is  as  unchristian  as  the  leopard’s. 

Don  Sllva. 

Say, 

Unchristian  as  the  Blessed  Virgin’s  blood 
Before  the  angel  spoke  the  word,  “  All  hail !  ” 

Prior  (smiling  bitterly). 

Say  I  not  truly  ?  See,  your  passion  weaves 
Already  blasphemies! 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Don  Silva. 

JT  is  you  provoke  them. 

Prior. 

I  strive,  as  still  the  Holy  Spirit  strives, 

To  move  the  will  perverse.  But,  failing  this, 

God  commands  other  means  to  save  our  blood, 

To  save  Castilian  glory,  —  nay,  to  save 

The  name  of  Christ  from  blot  of  traitorous  deeds. 

Don  Silva. 

Of  traitorous  deeds !  Age,  kindred,  and  your  cowl, 
Give  an  ignoble  license  to  your  tongue. 

As  for  your  threats,  fulfil  them  at  your  peril. 

’T  is  you,  not  I,  will  gibbet  our  great  name 
To  rot  in  infamy.  If  I  am  strong 
In  patience  now,  trust  me,  I  can  be  strong 
Then  in  defiance. 

Prior. 

Miserable  man! 

Your  strength  will  turn  to  anguish,  like  the  strength 
Of  fallen  angels.  Can  you  change  your  blood  ? 

You  are  a  Christian,  with  the  Christian  awe 
In  every  vein.  A  Spanish  noble,  born 
To  serve  your  people  and  your  people’s  faith. 

Strong,  are  you  ?  Turn  your  back  upon  the  Cross,  — 
Its  shadow  is  before  you.  Leave  your  place  : 

Quit  the  great  ranks  of  knighthood :  you  will  walk 
Forever  with  a  tortured  double  self, 

A  self  that  will  be  hungry  while  you  feast, 

Will  blush  with  shame  while  you  are  glorified, 

Will  feel  the  ache  and  chill  of  desolation, 

Even  in  the  very  bosom  of  your  love. 

Mate  yourself  with  this  woman,  fit  for  what  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


81 


To  make  the  sport  of  Moorish  palaces, 
A  lewd  Herodias  .... 


Don  Silya. 

Stop !  no  other  man, 

Priest  though  he  were,  had  had  his  throat  left  free 
For  passage  of  those  words.  I  would  have  clutched 
His  serpent’s  neck,  and  flung  him  out  to  hell ! 

A  monk  must  needs  defile  the  name  of  love : 

He  knows  it  but  as  tempting  devils  paint  it. 

You  think  to  scare  my  love  from  its  resolve 

With  arbitrary  consequences,  strained 

By  rancorous  effort  from  the  thinnest  motes 

Of  possibility  ?  —  cite  hideous  lists 

Of  sins  irrelevant,  to  frighten  me 

With  bugbears’  names,  as  women  fright  a  child  ? 

Poor  pallid  wisdom,  taught  by  inference 

From  blood-drained  life,  where  phantom  terrors  rule, 

And  all  achievement  is  to  leave  undone ! 

Paint  the  day  dark,  make  sunshine  cold  to  me, 
Abolish  the  earth’s  fairness,  prove  it  all 
A  fiction  of  my  eyes,  —  then,  after  that, 

Profane  Fedalma. 


Prior. 

Oh,  there  is  no  need : 

She  has  profaned  herself.  Go,  raving  man, 
And  see  her  dancing  now.  Go,  see  your  bride 
Flaunting  her  beauties  grossly  in  the  gaze 
Of  vulgar  idlers,  —  eking  out  the  show 
Made  in  the  Plaga  by  a  mountebank. 

1  hinder  you  no  further. 

Don  Silva. 

It  is  false ! 

% 


82 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Prior. 

Go,  prove  it  false,  then. 

[Father  Isidor 

Drew  on  his  cowl  and  turned  away.  The  face 
That  flashed  anathemas,  in  swift  eclipse 
Seemed  Silva’s  vanished  confidence.  In  haste 
He  rushed  unsignalled  through  the  corridor 
To  where  the  Duchess  once,  Fedalma  now, 

Had  residence  retired  from  din  of  arms,  — 

Knocked,  opened,  found  all  empty,  —  said 

With  muffled  voice,  “  Fedalma  !  ”  —  called  more  loud, 

More  oft  on  Inez,  the  old  trusted  nurse,  — 

Then  searched  the  terrace-garden,  calling  still, 

But  heard  no  answering  sound,  and  saw  no  face 
Save  painted  faces  staring  all  unmoved 
By  agitated  tones.  He  hurried  back, 

Giving  half-conscious  orders  as  he  went 
To  page  and  usher,  that  they  straight  should  seek 
Lady  Fedalma ;  then  with  stinging  shame 
Wished  himself  silent ;  reached  again  the  room 
Where  still  the  Father’s  menace  seemed  to  hang 
Thickening  the  air  ;  snatched  cloak  and  plumed  hat, 
And  grasped,  not  knowing  why,  his  poniard’s  hilt ; 
Then  checked  himself  and  said :  —  ] 


If  he  spoke  truth! 

To  know  were  wound  enough,  —  to  see  the  truth 
Were  fire  upon  the  wound.  It  must  be  false ! 

His  hatred  saw  amiss,  or  snatched  mistake 
In  other  men’s  report.  I  am  a  fool ! 

But  where  can  she  be  gone  ?  gone  secretly  ? 

And  in  my  absence  ?  Oh,  she  meant  no  wrong ! 

I  am  a  fool !  —  But  where  can  she  be  gone  ? 

With  only  Inez  ?  Oh,  she  meant  no  wrong! 


“  Fedalma  entered,  cast  away  the  cloud 
Of  serge  and  linen,  and,  outbeaming  bright, 
Advanced  a  pace  towards  Silva.” 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


S3 

I  swear  she  never  meant  it.  There  ?s  no  wrong 
But  she  would  make  it  momentary  right 
By  innocence  in  doing  it . 

And  yet, 

What  is  our  certainty  ?  Why,  knowing  all 
That  is  not  secret.  Mighty  confidence  ! 

One  pulse  of  Time  makes  the  base  hollow,  —  sends 
The  towering  certainty  we  built  so  high 
Toppling  in  fragments  meaningless.  What  is  — 

What  will  be  —  must  be  —  pooh  !  they  wait  the  key 
Of  that  which  is  not  yet ;  all  other  keys 
Are  made  of  our  conjectures,  take  their  sense 
From  humors  fooled  by  hope,  or  by  despair. 

Know  what  is  good  ?  Oh  God,  we  know  not  yet 
If  bliss  itself  is  not  young  misery 
With  fangs  swift  growing . 

But  some  outward  harm 
May  even  now  be  hurting,  grieving  her. 

Oh,  I  must  search,  —  face  shame,  —  if  shame  be  there. 
Here,  Perez !  hasten  to  Don  Alvar,  —  tell  him 
Lady  Fedalma  must  be  sought,  —  is  lost,  — 

Has  met,  I  fear,  some  mischance.  He  must  send 
Towards  divers  points.  I  go  myself  to  seek 
First  in  the  town . 


[As  Perez  oped  the  door, 
Then  moved  aside  for  passage  of  the  Duke, 
Fedalma  entered,  cast  away  the  cloud 
Of  serge  and  linen,  and,  outbeaming  bright, 
Advanced  a  pace  towards  Silva,  —  but  then  paused, 
For  he  had  started  and  retreated ;  she, 

Quick  and  responsive  as  the  subtle  air 
To  change  in  him,  divined  that  she  must  wait 
Until  they  were  alone  :  they  stood  and  looked. 

Wit! fin  the  Duke  was  struggling  confluence 


84  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

«• 

Of  feelings  manifold,  —  pride,  anger,  dread, 

Meeting  in  stormy  rush  with  sense  secure 

That  she  was  present,  with  the  satisfied  thirst 

Of  gazing  love,  with  trust  inevitable 

As  in  beneficent  virtues  of  the  light 

And  all  earth’s  sweetness,  that  Fedalma’s  soul 

Was  free  from  blemishing  purpose.  Yet  proud  wrath 

Leaped  in  dark  flood  above  the  purer  stream 

That  strove  to  drown  it :  Anger  seeks  its  prey,  — 

Something  to  tear  with  sharp-edged  tooth  and  claw, 

Likes  not  to  go  off  hungry,  leaving  Love 

To  feast  on  milk  and  honeycomb  at  will. 

Silva’s  heart  said,  he  must  be  happy  soon, 

She  being  there ;  but  to  be  happy,  —  first 

He  must  be  angry,  having  cause.  Yet  love 

Shot  like  a  stifled  cry  of  tenderness 

All  through  the  harshness  he  would  fain  have  given 

To  the  dear  word,] 

Don  Silva. 

Fedalma ! 

Fedalma. 

O  my  Lord ! 

You  are  come  back,  and  I  was  wandering  ! 

Don  Silva  ( coldly ,  but  with  suppressed  agitation). 
You  meant  I  should  be  ignorant. 

Fedalma. 

Oh  no, 

I  should  have  told  you  after,  —  not  before, 

Lest  you  should  hinder  me. 

Don  Silva. 

Then  my  known  wish 

Can  make  no  hindrance  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


85 


Fedalma  {archly). 

That  depends 

On  what  the  wish  may  he.  You  wished  me  once 
Not  to  uncage  the  birds.  I  meant  to  obey : 

But  in  a  moment  something  —  something  stronger, 
Forced  me  to  let  them  out.  It  did  no  harm. 

They  all  came  back  again,  —  the  silly  birds  ! 

I  told  you,  after. 

Don  Silya  (with  haughty  coldness). 

Will  you  tell  me  now 

What  was  the  prompting  stronger  than  my  wish 
That  made  you  wander  ? 

Fedalma  (advancing  a  step  towards  him ,  with  a 
sudden  look  of  anxiety). 

Are  you  angry  ? 

Don  Silva  (smiling  bitterly). 

Angry  ? 

A  man  deep-wounded  may  feel  too  much  pain 
To  feel  much  anger. 

Fedalma  (still  more  anxiously). 

You  —  deep-wounded  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Yes! 

Have  I  not  made  your  place  and  dignity 
The  very  heart  of  my  ambition  ?  You,  — 

No  enemy  could  do  it,  — you  alone 
Can  strike  it  mortally. 

Fedalma. 

Nay,  Silva,  nay. 

Has  some  one  told  you  false  ?  I  only  went 
To  see  the  world  with  Inez,  —  see  the  town, 


86 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  people,  everything.  It  was  no  harm. 

I  did  not  mean  to  dance  *.  it  happened  so 

At  last  .... 

Don  Silva. 

O  God,  it ’s  true,  then !  —  true  that  you, 
A  maiden  nurtured  as  rare  flowers  are, 

The  very  air  of  heaven  sifted  fine 
Lest  any  mote  should  mar  your  purity, 

Have  flung  yourself  out  on  the  dusty  way 
For  common  eyes  to  see  your  beauty  soiled ! 

You  own  it  true, — you  danced  upon  the  Plasa? 

Fedalma  (proudly). 

Yes,  it  is  true.  I  was  not  wrong  to  dance. 

The  air  was  filled  with  music,  with  a  song 
That  seemed  the  voice  of  the  sweet  eventide,  — 

The  glowing  light  entering  through  eye  and  ear,  — 

That  seemed  our  love, — mine,  yours, —  they  are  but  one,— 
Trembling  through  all  my  limbs,  as  fervent  words 
Tremble  within  my  soul  and  must  be  spoken. 

And  all  the  people  felt  a  common  joy 
And  shouted  for  the  dance.  A  brightness  soft 
As  of  the  angels  moving  down  to  see 
Illumined  the  broad  space.  The  joy,  the  life 
Around,  within  me,  were  one  heaven :  I  longed 
To  blend  them  visibly :  I  longed  to  dance 
Before  the  people,  —  be  as  mounting  flame 
To  all  that  burned  within  them  !  Nay,  I  danced ; 

There  was  no  longing :  I  but  did  the  deed 
Being  moved  to  do  it. 

(As  Fedalma  speaks ,  she  and  Don  Silva  are  grad¬ 
ually  drawn  nearer  to  each  other.) 

Oh,  I  seemed  new-waked 
To  life  in  unison  with  a  multitude,  ~r 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


87 


Feeling  my  soul  upborne  by  all  their  souls, 

Floating  within  their  gladness  !  Soon  I  lost 
All  sense  of  separateness  :  Fedalma  died 
As  a  star  dies,  and  melts  into  the  light. 

I  was  not,  but  joy  was,  and  love  and  triumph. 

Nay,  my  dear  lord,  I  never  could  do  aught 
But  I  must  feel  you  present.  And  once  done, 

Why,  you  must  love  it  better  than  your  wish. 

I  pray  you,  say  so,  —  say,  it  was  not  wrong ! 

(While  Fedalma  has  been  making  this  last  appeal, 
they  have  gradually  come  close  together ,  and  at 
last  embraced) 

Don  Silva  ( holding  her  hands). 

Dangerous  rebel !  if  the  world  without 
Were  pure  as  that  within  ....  but  ’t  is  a  book 
Wherein  you  only  read  the  poesy 
And  miss  all  wicked  meanings.  Hence  the  need 
For  trust  —  obedience,  —  call  it  what  you  will,  — 
Towards  him  whose  life  will  be  your  guard,  —  towards 
me 

Who  now  am  soon  to  be  your  husband. 

Fedalma. 

Yes ! 

That  very  thing  that  when  I  am  your  wife 
I  shall  be  something  different,  —  shall  be 
I  know  not  what,  a  duchess  with  new  thoughts,  — 

For  nobles  never  think  like  common  men, 

Nor  wives  like  maidens  (oh,  you  wot  not  yet 
How  much  I  note,  with  all  my  ignorance),  — 

That  very  thing  has  made  me  mare  resolve 
To  have  my  will  before  I  am  your  wife. 

How  can  the  Duchess  ever  satisfy 
Fedalma’s  unwed  eyes  ?  and  so  to-day 
I  scolded  Inez  till  she  cried  and  went. 


88 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Don  Silva. 

It  was  a  guilty  weakness  :  she  knows  well 
That  since  you  pleaded  to  be  left  more  free 
From  tedious  tendance  and  control  of  dames 
Whose  rank  matched  better  with  your  destiny, 

Her  charge  —  my  trust  —  was  weightier. 

FEDALMAo 

Nay,  my  lor 

You  must  not  blame  her,  dear  old  nurse.  She  cried. 
Why,  you  would  have  consented  too,  at  last. 

I  said  such  things  !  I  was  resolved  to  go, 

And  see  the  streets,  the  shops,  the  men  at  work, 

The  women,  little  children,  —  everything, 

Just  as  it  is  when  nobody  looks  on. 

And  I  have  done  it !  We  were  out  four  hours. 

I  feel  so  wise. 


Don  Silva. 

Had  you  but  seen  the  town, 

You  innocent  naughtiness,  not  shown  yourself,  - 
Shown  yourself  dancing,  — you  bewilder  me  !  — 
Frustrate  my  judgment  with  strange  negatives 
That  seem  like  poverty,  and  yet  are  wealth 
In  precious  womanliness,  beyond  the  dower 
Of  other  women :  wealth  in  virgin  gold, 
Outweighing  all  their  petty  currency. 

You  daring  modesty  !  You  shrink  no  more 
From  gazing  men  than  from  the  gazing  flowers 
That,  dreaming  sunshine,  open  as  you  pass. 

Fed  alma. 

No,  I  should  like  the  world  to  look  at  me 
With  eyes  of  love  that  make  a  second  day. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


89 


£  tliink  your  eyes  would  keep  the  life  in  me 
Though  I  had  naught  to  feed  on  else.  Their  blue 
Is  better  than  the  heavens’,  —  hold  more  love 
For  me,  Fedalma,  —  is  a  little  heaven 
For  this  one  little  world  that  looks  up  now. 

Don  Silva. 

O  precious  little  world !  you  make  the  heaven 
As  the  earth  makes  the  sky.  But,  dear,  all  eyes, 
Though  looking  even  on  you,  have  not  a  glance 
That  cherishes  .... 

Fedalma. 

Ah  no,  I  meant  to  tell  you,  — » 
Tell  how  my  dancing  ended  with  a  pang. 

There  came  a  man,  one  among  many  more, 

But  he  came  first,  with  iron  on  his  limbs. 

And  when  the  bell  tolled,  and  the  people  prayed, 

And  I  stood  pausing,  —  then  he  looked  at  me. 

0  Silva,  such  a  man !  I  thought  he  rose 
From  the  dark  place  of  long-imprisoned  souls, 

To  say  that  Christ  had  never  come  to  them. 

It  was  a  look  to  shame  a  seraph’s  joy 

And  make  him  sad  in  heaven.  It  found  me  there,  — « 

Seemed  to  have  travelled  far  to  find  me  there 

And  grasp  me,  —  claim  this  festal  life  of  mine 

As  heritage  of  sorrow,  chill  my  blood 

With  the  cold  iron  of  some  unknown  bonds. 

The  gladness  hurrying  full  within  my  veins 
Was  sudden  frozen,  and  I  danced  no  more. 

But  seeing  you  let  loose  the  stream  of  joy, 

Mingling  the  present  with  the  sweetest  past. 

Yet,  Silva,  still  I  see  him.  Who  is  he  ? 

Who  are  those  prisoners  with  him  ?  Are  they  Moors  ? 


90 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Don  Silva. 

No,  they  are  Gypsies,  strong  and  cunning  knaves* 
A  double  gain  to  us  by  the  Moors’  loss  : 

The  man  you  mean  —  their  chief  —  is  an  ally 
The  :-fidel  will  miss.  His  look  might  chase 
A  hero,  of  monks,  and  make  them  fly  more  swift 
Than  from  St.  Jerome’s  lion.  Such  vague  fear, 
Such  bird-like  tremors  when  that  savage  glance 
Turned  full  upon  you  in  your  height  of  joy 
Was  natural,  was  not  worth  emphasis. 

Forget  it,  dear.  This  hour  is  worth  whole  days 
When  we  are  sundered.  Danger  urges  us 
To  quick  resolve. 

Fed  alma. 

What  danger  ?  What  resolve  V 
I  never  felt  chill  shadow  in  my  heart 
Until  this  sunset. 


Don  Silva. 

A  dark  enmity 

Plots  how  to  sever  us.  And  our  defence 
Is  speedy  marriage,  secretly  achieved, 

Then  publicly  declared.  Beseech  you,  dear, 

Grant  me  this  confidence ;  do  my  will  in  this, 

T'  usting  the  reasons  why  I  overset 
All  my  own  airy  building  raised  so  high 
U:p  bridal  honors,  marking  when  you  step 
Fr_.ni  off  your  maiden  throne  to  come  to  me 
And  bear  the  yoke  of  love.  There  is  great  need. 

T  hastened  home,  carrying  this  prayer  to  you 
y7ithin  my  heart.  The  bishop  is  my  friend, 
Furthers  our  marriage,  holds  in  enmity 
Some  whom  we  love  not  and  who  love  not  us. 

By  this  night’s  moon  our  priest  will  be  despatched 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


91 


From  Jaen.  I  shall  march  an.  escort  strong 
To  meet  him.  Ere  a  second  sun  from  this 
Has  risen  —  you  consenting  —  we  may  wed. 

Fed  alma. 

None  knowing  that  we  wed  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Beforehand  none 

Save  Inez  and  Don  Alvar.  But  the  vows 
Once  safely  binding  ,us,  my  household  all 
Shall  know  you  as  their  Duchess.  No  man  then 
Can  aim  a  blow  at  you  but  through  my  breast, 
And  what  stains  you  must  stain  our  ancient  name 
If  any  hate  you  I  will  take  his  hate 
And  wear  it  as  a  glove  upon  my  helm ; 

Nay,  God  himself  will  never  have  the  power 
To  strike  you  solely  and  leave  me  unhurt, 

He  having  made  us  one.  Now  put  the  seal 
Of  your  dear  lips  on  that. 

Fedalma. 

A  solemn  kiss  ?— 

Such  as  I  gave  you  when  you  came  that  day 
From  Cdrdova,  when  first  we  said  we  loved  ? 
When  you  had  left  the  ladies  of  the  court 
For  thirst  to  see  me  ;  and  you  told  me  so ; 

And  then  I  seemed  to  know  why  I  had  lived. 

I  never  knew  before.  A  kiss  like  that  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Yes,  yes,  you  face  divine  !  When  was  our  kisf 
Like  any  other  ? 

Fedalma. 

Nay,  I  cannot  tell 

What  other  kisses  are.  But  that  one  kiss 


92 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Remains  upon  my  lips.  The  angels,  spirits, 

Creatures  with  finer  sense,  may  see  it  there. 

And  now  another  kiss  that  will  not  die, 

Saying,  To-morrow  I  shall  be  your  wife  ! 

( They  kiss,  and  pause  a  moment,  looking  ear¬ 
nestly  in  each  other's  eyes.  Then  Fedalma, 
breaking  away  from  Don  Silya,  stands  at  a 
little  distance  from  him  with  a  look  of  roguish 
delight.) 

Now  I  am  glad  I  saw  the  town  to-day 
Before  I  am  a  Duchess,  —  glad  I  gave 
This  poor  Fedalma  all  her  wish.  For  once, 

Long  years  ago,  I  cried  when  Inez  said, 

“  You  are  no  more  a  little  girl ;  ”  I  grieved 

To  part  forever  from  that  little  girl 

And  all  her  happy  world  so  near  the  ground. 

It  must  be  sad  to  outlive  aught  we  love. 

So  I  shall  grieve  a  little  for  these  days 
Of  poor  unwed  Fedalma.  Oh,  they  are  sweet, 

And  none  will  come  just  like  them.  Perhaps  the  wind 
Wails  so  in  winter  for  the  summers  dead, 

And  all  sad  sounds  are  nature’s  funeral  cries 
For  what  has  been  and  is  not.  Are  they,  Silva  ? 

(She  comes  nearer  to  him  again,  and  lays  her 
hand  on  his  arm,  looking  up  at  him  with  meh 
ancholy.) 


Don  Silva. 

Why,  dearest,  you  began  in  merriment, 

And  end  as  sadly  as  a  widowed  bird. 

Some  touch  mysterious  has  new-tuned  your  soul 
To  melancholy  sequence.  You  soared  high 
In  that  wild  flight  of  rapture  when  you  danced, 
And  now  you  droop.  ’T  is  arbitrary  grief, 


THE  SPANISH  JYPSY. 


93 


Surfeit  of  happiness,  that  mourns  for  loss 
Of  unwed  love,  which  does  but  die  like  seed 
For  fuller  harvest  of  our  tenderness. 

We  in  our  wedded  life  shall  know  no  loss. 

We  shall  new-date  our  years.  What  went  before 
Will  be  the  time  of  promise,  shadows,  dreams ; 

But  this,  full  revelation  of  great  love. 

For  rivers  blent  take  in  a  broader  heaven, 

And  we  shall  blend  our  souls.  Away  with  grief  I 
When  this  dear  head  shall  wear  the  double  crown 
Of  wife  and  Duchess,  —  spiritually  crowned 
With  sworn  espousal  before  God  and  man,  — 

Visibly  crowned  with  jewels  that  bespeak 
The  chosen  sharer  of  my  heritage,  — 

My  love  will  gather  perfectness,  as  thoughts 

That  nourish  us  to  magnanimity 

Grow  perfect  with  more  perfect  utterance, 

Gathering  full-shapen  strength.  And  then  these  gems, 

(Don  Silva  draws  Fed  alma  towards  the  jewel 
casket  on  the  table ,  and  opens  it.) 

Helping  the  utterance  of  my  soul’s  full  choice, 

Will  be  the  words  made  richer  by  just  use, 

And  have  new  meaning  in  their  lustrousness. 

You  know  these  jewels ;  they  are  precious  signs 
Of  long-transmitted  honor,  heightened  still 
By  worthy  wearing  ;  and  I  give  them  you,  — 

Ask  you  to  take  them,  —  place  our  house’s  trust 
In  her  sure  keeping  whom  my  heart  has  found 
Worthiest,  most  beauteous.  These  rubies  —  see  — 

Were  falsely  placed  if  not  upon  your  brow. 

(Fedalma,  while  Don  Silva  holds  open  the  cas • 
ket,  bends  over  it,  looking  at  the  jewels  with 
delight.) 


94  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Fed  alma. 

Ah,  I  remember  them.  In  childish  days 
I  felt  as  if  they  were  alive  and  breathed. 

I  used  to  sit  with  awe  and  look  at  them. 

And  now  they  will  be  mine  !  I  ’ll  put  them  on. 

Help  me,  my  lord,  and  you  shall  see  me  now 
Somewhat  as  I  shall  look  at  Court  with  you, 

That  we  may  know  if  I  shall  bear  them  well. 

I  have  a  fear  sometimes  :  I  think  your  love 
Has  never  paused  within  your  eyes  to  look, 

And  only  passes  through  them  into  mine. 

But  when  the  Court  is  looking,  and  the  queen, 

Your  eyes  will  follow  theirs.  Oh,  if  you  saw 
That  I  was  other  than  you  wished,  —  ’t were  death! 

Don  Silva  (taking  up  a  jewel  and  placing  it  against 

her  ear). 

Nay,  let  us  try.  Take  out  your  ear-ring,  sweet. 

This  ruby  glows  with  longing  for  your  ear. 

Fedalma  ( taking  out  her  ear-rings ,  and  then  lifting 
up  the  other  jewels,  one  by  one). 

Pray,  fasten  in  the  rubies. 

(Don  Silva  begins  to  put  in  the  ear-ring .) 

I  was  right ! 

These  gems  have  life  in  them :  their  colors  speak, 

Say  what  words  fail  of.  So  do  many  things,  — - 
The  scent  of  jasmine,  and  the  fountain’s  plash, 

The  moving  shadows  on  the  far-off  hills, 

The  slanting  moonlight  and  our  clasping  hands. 

O  Silva,  there ’s  an  ocean  round  our  words 
That  overflows  and  drowns  them.  Do  you  know 
Sometimes  when  we  sit  silent,  and  the  air 
Breathes  gently  on  us  from  the  orange-trees. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


95 


It  seems  that  with  the  whisper  of  a  word 
Our  souls  must  shrink,  get  poorer,  more  apart. 

Is  it  not  true  ? 

Don  S*lva. 

Yes,  dearest,  it  is  true. 

Speech  is  but  broken  light  upon  the  depth 
Of  the  unspoken  :  even  your  loved  words 
Float  in  the  larger  meaning  of  your  voice 
As  something  dimmer. 

(He  is  still  trying  in  vain  to  fasten  the  second 
ear-ring ,  while  she  has  stooped  again  over 
the  casket .) 

Fed  alma  ( raising  her  head). 

Ah !  your  lordly  hands 
Will  never  fix  that  jewel.  Let  me  try. 

Women’s  small  finger-tips  have  eyes. 

Don  Silva. 

No,  no ! 

I  like  the  task,  only  you  must  be  still. 

(She  stands  perfectly  still ,  clasping  her  hands 
together  while  he  fastens  the  second  ear-ring. 
Suddenly  a  clanking  noise  is  heard  without.) 

Fedalma  (starting  with  an  expression  of  pain). 

What  is  that  sound  ?  —  that  jarring  cruel  sound  ? 

’T  is  there,  —  outside. 

(She  tries  to  start  away  towards  the  window^ 
but  Don  Silva  detains  her.) 

Don  Silva. 

Oh  heed  it  not,  it  comes 
From  workmen  in  the  outer  gallery. 


POEMS  W  GEOKGE  ELIOT. 


Fedalma. 

It  is  the  sound  of  fetters  :  sound  of  work 
Is  not  so  dismal.  Hark,  they  pass  along ! 

I  know  it  is  those  Gypsy  prisoners. 

I  saw  them,  heard  their  chains.  Oh  horrible, 

To  be  in  chains  !  Why,  I  with  all  my  bliss 
Have  longed  sometimes  to  fly  and  be  at  large; 

Have  felt  imprisoned  in  my  luxury 
With  servants  for  my  jailers.  0  my  lord, 

Do  you  not  wish  the  world  were  different  ? 

Don  Silva. 

It  will  be  different  when  this  war  has  ceased. 

You,  wedding  me,  will  make  it  different, 

Making  one  life  more  perfect. 

Fedalma. 

That  is  true ! 

And  I  shall  beg  much  kindness  at  your  hands 
For  those  who  are  less  happy  than  ourselves.  — 

( Brightening .)  Oh,  I  shall  rule  you !  ask  for  many  things 
Before  the  world,  which  you  will  not  deny 
For  very  pride,  lest  men  should  say,  “  The  Duke 
Holds  lightly  by  his  Duchess ;  he  repents 
His  humble  choice.” 

(She  breaks  away  from  him  and  returns  to  the  jew* 
els ,  taking  up  a  necklace ,  and  clasping  it  on  her 
neck ,  while  he  takes  a  circlet  of  diamonds  and 
rubies  and  raises  it  towards  her  head  as  he 
speaks .) 

Don  Silva. 

Doubtless,  I  shall  persist 
tn  loving  you,  to  disappoint  the  world  ; 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


97 


Out  of  pure  obstinacy  feel  myself 
Happiest  of  men.  Now,  take  the  coronet. 

[He  places  the  circlet  on  her  head,') 
The  diamonds  want  more  light.  See,  from  this  lamp 
I  can  set  tapers  burning. 

Fedalma. 

Tell  me,  now, 

When  all  these  cruel  wars  are  at  an  end, 

And  when  we  go  to  Court  at  Cdrdova, 

Or  Seville,  or  Toledo,  —  wait  awhile, 

I  must  be  farther  off  for  you  to  see,  — 

(She  retreats  to  a  distance  from  him ,  and  then 
advances  slowly.) 

Now  think  (I  would  the  tapers  gave  more  light  ! ) 

If  when  you  show  me  at  the  tournaments 
Among  the  other  ladies,  they  will  say, 

“Duke  Silva  is  well  matched.  His  bride  was  naught, 
Was  some  poor  foster-child,  no  man  knows  what, 

Yet  is  her  carriage  noble,  all  her  robes 

Are  worn  with  grace:  she  might  have  been  well  born.” 

Will  they  say  so  ?  Think  now  we  are  at  Court, 

And  all  eyes  bent  on  me. 

Don  Silva. 

Fear  not,  my  Duchess! 

Some  knight  who  loves  may  say  his  lady-love 
Is  fairer,  being  fairest.  None  can  say 
Don  Silva’s  bride  might  better  fit  her  rank. 

You  will  make  rank  seem  natural  as  kind, 

As  eagle’s  plumage  or  the  lion’s  might. 

A  crown  upon  your  brow  would  seem  God-made. 


98 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Fed  alma. 

Then  I  am  glad !  I  shall  try  on  to-night 
The  other  jewels,  —  have  the  tapers  lit, 

And  see  the  diamonds  sparkle. 

{She  goes  to  the  casket  again.) 
Here  is  gold, — 

A  necklace  of  pure  gold,  • —  most  finely  wrought. 

{She  takes  out  a  large  gold  necklace  and  holds 
it  up  before  her,  then  turns  to  Don  Silva.) 
But  this  is  one  that  you  have  worn,  my  lord  ? 

Don  Silva. 

No,  love,  I  never  wore  it.  Lay  it  down. 

{He  puts  the  necklace  gently  out  of  her  hand , 
then  joins  both  her  hands  and  holds  them  up 
between  his  own.) 

You  must  not  look  at  jewels  any  more, 

But  look  at  me. 

Fedalma  {looking  up  at  him), 

0  you  dear  heaven ! 

I  should  see  naught  if  you  were  gone.  ’T  is  true 
My  mind  is  too  much  given  to  gauds,  —  to  things 
That  fetter  thought  within  this  narrow  space. 

That  comes  of  fear. 

Don  Silva. 

What  fear  ? 

Fedalma. 

Fear  of  myself, 

For  when  I  walk  upon  the  battlements 
And  see  the  river  travelling  toward  the  plain, 

The  mountains  screening  all  the  world  beyond, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPS*, 


99 


A  longing  comes  that  haunts  me  in  my  dreams,  — 
Dreams  where  I  seem  to  spring  from  off  the  walls, 
And  fly  far,  far  away,  until  at  last 
I  find  myself  alone  among  the  rocks, 

Remember  then  that  I  have  left  you,  —  try 
To  fly  back  to  you,  —  and  my  wings  are  gone ! 

Don  Silya. 

A  wicked  dream !  If  ever  I  left  you, 

Even  in  dreams,  it  was  some  demon  dragged  me, 
And  with  fierce  struggles  I  awaked  myself. 

Fed  alma. 

It  is  a  hateful  dream,  and  when  it  comes,  — 

I  mean,  when  in  my  waking  hours  there  comes 
That  longing  to  be  free,  I  am  afraid  : 

I  run  down  to  my  chamber,  plait  my  hair, 

Weave  colors  in  it,  lay  out  all  my  gauds, 

And  in  my  mind  make  new  ones  prettier. 

You  see  I  have  two  minds,  and  both  are  foolish- 
Sometimes  a  torrent  rushing  through  my  soul 
Escapes  in  wild  strange  wishes ;  presently, 

It  dwindles  to  a  little  babbling  rill 

And  plays  among  the  pebbles  and  the  flowers. 

Ifiez  will  have  it  I  lack  broidery, 

Says  naught  else  gives  content  to  noble  maids. 

But  I  have  never  broidered,  —  never  will. 

No,  when  I  am  a  Duchess  and  a  wife 
I  shall  ride  forth  —  may  I  not  ?  —  by  your  side. 

Don  Silva. 

Yes,  you  shall  ride  upon  a  palfrey,  black 
To  match  Bavieca.  Not  Queen  Isabel 
Will  be  a  sight  more  gladdening  to  men’s  eyes, 
Than  my  dark  aueen  Fedalma. 


iUU  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Fed  alma. 

Ah,  but  you, 

You  are  my  king,  and  I  shall  tremble  still 
With  some  great  fear  that  throbs  within  my  lore. 

Does  your  love  fear  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Ah,  yes !  all  preciousness 
To  mortal  hearts  is  guarded  by  a  fear. 

All  love  fears  loss,  and  most  that  loss  supreme, 

Its  own  perfection,  —  seeing,  feeling  change 
From  high  to  lower,  dearer  to  less  dear. 

Can  love  be  careless  ?  If  we  lost  our  love 
What  should  we  find  ?  —  with  this  sweet  Past  torn  off^ 
Our  lives  deep  scarred  just  where  their  beauty  lay  ? 
The  best  we  found  thenceforth  were  still  a  worse  : 

The  only  better  is  a  Past  that  lives 
On  through  an  added  Present,  stretching  still 
In  hope  unchecked  by  shaming  memories 
To  life’s  last  breath.  And  so  I  tremble  too 
Before  my  queen  Fedalma. 

Fed  alma. 

That  is  just. 

’T  were  hard  of  Love  to  make  us  women  fear 
And  leave  you  bold.  Yet  Love  is  not  quite  even. 

For  feeble  creatures,  little  birds  and  fawns, 

Are  shaken  more  by  fear,  while  large  strong  things 
Can  bear  it  stoutly.  So  we  women  still 
Are  not  well  dealt  with.  Yet  would  I  choose  to  be 
Fedalma  loving  Silva.  You,  my  lord, 

Hold  the  worse  share,  since  you  must  love  poor  me. 
But  is  it  what  we  love,  or  how  we  love, 

That  makes  true  good  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


101 


Don  Silva. 

O  subtlety  !  for  me 

>T  is  what  I  love  determines  how  I  love. 

The  goddess  with  pure  rites  reveals  herself 
And  makes  pure  worship. 

Fed  alma. 

Do  you  worship  me  ? 
Don  Silva. 

Ay,  with  that  best  of  worship  which  adores 
Goodness  adorable. 

Fed  alma  (archly). 

Goodness  obedient, 

Doing  your  will,  devoutest  worshipper  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Yes,  —  listening  to  this  prayer.  This  very  night 
I  shall  go  forth.  And  you  will  rise  with  day 
And  wait  for  me  ? 

Fed  alma. 

Yes. 

Don  Silva. 

I  shall  surely  come. 

And  then  we  shall  be  married.  Now  I  go 
To  audience  fixed  in  Abderahman’s  tower. 

Farewell,  love  !  ( They  embrace .) 

Fed  alma. 

Some  chill  dread  possesses  me ! 
Don  Silva. 

Oh,  confidence  has  oft  been  evil  augury, 

So  dread  may  hold  a  promise.  Sweet,  farewell! 


102 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


I  shall  send  tendance  as  I  pass,  to  bear 
This  casket  to  your  chamber.  —  One  more  kiss. 

(Exit.) 

Fedalma  (when  Don  Silya  is  gone,  returning  to  the 
casket ,  and  looking  dreamily  at  the  jewels). 

Yes,  now  that  good  seems  less  impossible ! 

Now  it  seems  true  that  I  shall  be  his  wife, 

Be  ever  by  his  side,  and  make  a  part 
In  all  his  purposes . 

These  rubies  greet  me  Duchess.  How  they  glow ! 
Their  prisoned  souls  are  throbbing  like  my  own. 
Perchance  they  loved  once,  were  ambitious,  proud ; 
Or  do  they  only  dream  of  wider  life, 

Ache  from  intenseness,  yearn  to  burst  the  wall 
Compact  of  crystal  splendor,  and  to  flood 
Some  wider  space  with  glory  ?  Poor,  poor  gems  1 
We  must  be  patient  in  our  prison-house, 

And  find  our  space  in  loving.  Pray  you,  love  me. 
Let  us  be  glad  together.  And  you,  gold,  — 

(She  takes  up  the  gold  necklace .) 

You  wondrous  necklace,  —  will  you  love  me  too, 
And  be  my  amulet  to  keep  me  safe 
From  eyes  that  hurt  ? 

(She  spreads  out  the  necklace ,  meaning  to  clasp 
it  on  her  neck.  Then  pauses ,  startled,  hold » 
ing  it  before  her,) 

Why,  it  is  magical ! 

He  says  he  never  wore  it,  —  yet  these  lines,  — 

Nay,  if  he  had,  I  should  remember  well 

*T  was  he,  no  other.  And  these  twisted  lines,  — 

They  seem  to  speak  to  me  as  writing  would, 

To  bring  a  message  from  the  dead,  dead  past. 

What  is  their  secret  ?  Are  they  characters  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


103 


I  never  learned  them  ;  yet  they  stir  some  sense 
That  once  I  dreamed,  —  I  have  forgotten  what. 

Or  was  it  life  ?  Perhaps  I  lived  before 

In  some  strange  world  where  first  my  soul  was  shaped, 

And  all  this  passionate  love,  and  joy,  and  pain, 

That  come,  I  know  not  whence,  and  sway  my  deeds, 

Are  dim  yet  mastering  memories,  blind  yet  strong, 

That  this  world  stirs  within  me ;  as  this  chain 
Stirs  some  strange  certainty  of  visions  gone, 

And  all  my  mind  is  as  an  eye  that  stares 
Into  the  darkness  painfully. 

(  While  Fedalma  has  been  looking  at  the  necklace , 
Juan  has  entered ,  and  finding  himself  unob¬ 
served  by  her ,  says  at  last,') 

Senora ! 

Fedalma  starts ,  and  gathering  the  necklace  together 

turns  round  — 

O  Juan,  it  is  you ! 

Juan. 

I  met  the  Duke,  — 

Had  waited  long  without,  no  matter  why,  — 

And  when  he  ordered  one  to  wait  on  you 
And  carry  forth  a  burden  you  would  give, 

I  prayed  for  leave  to  be  the  servitor. 

Don  Silva  owes  me  twenty  granted  wishes 
That  I  have  never  tendered,  lacking  aught 
That  I  could  wish  for  and  a  Duke  could  grant ; 

But  this  one  wish  to  serve  you,  weighs  as  much 
As  twenty  other  longings. 

0 

Fedvlma  [smiling). 

That  sounds  well 

You  turn  your  speeches  prettily  as  songs 


104 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


But  I  will  not  forget  the  many  days 
You  have  neglected  me.  Your  pupil  learng 
But  little  from  you  now.  Her  studies  flag. 

The  Duke  says,  “  That  is  idle  Juan’s  way  : 

Poets  must  rove,  — are  honey-sucking  birds 
And  know  not  constancy.”  Said  he  quite  true  ? 

Juan. 

0  lady,  constancy  has  kind  and  rank. 

One  man’s  is  lordly,  plump,  and  bravely  clad, 
Holds  its  head  high,  and  tells  the  world  its  name 
Another  man’s  is  beggared,  must  go  bare, 

And  shiver  through  the  world,  the  jest  of  all, 

But  that  it  puts  the  motley  on,  and  plays 

Itself  the  jester.  But  I  see  you  hold 

The  Gypsy’s  necklace :  it  is  quaintly  wrought. 

Fed  alma. 

The  Gypsy’s  ?  Do  you  know  its  history  ? 

Juan. 

No  further  back  than  when  I  saw  it  taken 
From  off  its  wearer’s  neck,  —  the  Gypsy  chief’s. 

Fedalma  {eagerly). 

What !  he  who  paused,  at  tolling  of  the  bell, 
Before  me  in  the  Pla$a  ? 

Juan. 

Yes,  I  saw 

His  look  fixed  on  you. 

Fedalma. 

Know  you  aught  of  him  1 
Juan. 

Something  and  nothing,  —  as  I  know  the  sky, 

Or  some  great  story  of  the  olden  time 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


105 


That  hides  a  secret.  I  have  oft  talked  with  him. 

He  seems  to  say  much,  yet  is  but  a  wizard 
Who  draws  down  rain  by  sprinkling ;  throws  me  out 
Some  pregnant  text  that  urges  comment ;  casts 
A  sharp  hooked  question,  baited  with  such  skill 
It  needs  must  catch  the  answer. 

Fed  alma. 

It  is  hard 

That  such  a  man  should  be  a  prisoner,  — 

Be  chained  to  work. 

Juan. 

Oh,  he  is  dangerous ! 

Gran&da  with  this  Zarca  for  a  king 
Might  still  maim  Christendom.  He  is  of  those 
Who  steal  the  keys  from  snoring  Destiny 
And  make  the  prophets  lie.  A  Gypsy,  too, 

Suckled  by  hunted  beasts,  whose  motlier-milk 
Has  filled  his  veins  with  hate. 

Fkdalma. 

I  thought  his  eyes 

Spoke  not  of  hatred,  —  seemed  to  say  he  bore 
The  pain  of  those  who  never  could  be  saved. 

What  if  the  Gypsies  are  but  savage  beasts 
And  must  be  hunted  ?  —  let  them  be  set  free, 

Have  benefit  of  chase,  or  stand  at  bay 
And  fight  for  life  and  offspring.  Prisoners  ! 

Oh,  they  have  made  their  fires  beside  the  streams, 
Their  walls  have  been  the  rocks,  the  pillared  pines, 
Their  roof  the  living  sky  that  breathes  with  light : 
They  may  well  hate  a  cage,  like  strong-winged  birds. 
Like  me,  who  have  no  wings,  but  only  wishes. 

I  will  beseech  the  Duke  to  set  them  free. 


106 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Juan. 

Pardon  me,  lady,  if  I  seem  to  warn, 

Or  try  to  play  the  sage.  What  if  the  Duke 
Loved  not  to  hear  of  Gypsies  ?  if  their  name 
Were  poisoned  for  him  once,  being  used  amiss? 

I  speak  not  as  of  fact.  Our  nimble  souls 
Can  spin  an  insubstantial  universe 
Suiting  our  mood,  and  call  it  possible, 

Sooner  than  see  one  grain  with  eye  exact 
And  give  strict  record  of  it.  Yet  by  chance 
Our  fancies  may  be  truth  and  make  us  seers. 

?T  is  a  rare  teeming  world,  so  harvest-full, 

Even  guessing  ignorance  may  pluck  some  fruit. 

Note  what  I  say  no  further  than  will  stead 
The  siege  you  lay.  I  would  not  seem  to  tell 
Aught  that  the  Duke  may  think  and  yet  withhold : 

It  were  a  trespass  in  me. 

Fed  alma. 

Fear  not,  Juan. 

Your  words  bring  daylight  with  them  when  you  speak. 

I  understand  your  care.  But  I  am  brave,  — 

Oh,  and  so  cunning  !  —  always  I  prevail. 

Now,  honored  Troubadour,  if  you  will  be 
Your  pupil’s  servant,  bear  this  casket  hence. 

Nay,  not  the  necklace :  it  is  hard  to  place. 

Pray  go  before  me ;  Inez  will  be  there. 

{Exit  Juan  with  the  casket) 

Fedalma  ( looking  again  at  the  necklace ). 

It  is  his  past  clings  to  you,  not  my  own. 

If  we  have  each  our  angels,  good  and  bad, 

Fates,  separate  from  ourselves,  who  act  for  us 
When  we  are  blind,  or  sleep,  then  this  man’s  fate, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


1  or 


Hovering  about  the  thing  he  used  to  wear, 

Has  laid  its  grasp  on  mine  appealingly. 

Dangerous,  is  he  ?  —  well,  a  Spanish  knight 
Would  have  his  enemy  strong,  — defy,  not  bind  him. 
I  can  dare  all  things  when  my  soul  is  moved 
By  something  hidden  that  possesses  me. 

If  Silva  said  this  man  must  keep  his  chains 
I  should  find  ways  to  free  him,  —  disobey 
And  free  him  as  I  did  the  birds.  But  no  ! 

As  soon  as  we  are  wed,  I  ’ll  put  my  prayer, 

And  he  will  not  deny  me :  he  is  good. 

Oh,  I  shall  have  much  power  as  well  as  joy I 
Duchess  Fedalma  may  do  what  she  will. 


A  Street  by  the  Castle.  J uan  leans  against  a  parapet,  in 
moonlight ,  and  touches  his  lute  half  unconsciously . 
Pepita  stands  on  tiptoe  watching  him ,  and  them  ad¬ 
vances  till  her  shadow  falls  in  front  of  him .  We 
looks  towards  her.  A  piece  of  white  drapery  thrown 
over  her  head  catches  the  moonlight. 

Juan. 

Ha !  my  Pepita !  see  how  thin  and  long 
Your  shadow  is.  ’T  is  so  your  ghost  will  be, 

When  you  are  dead. 

Pepita  ( crossing  herself). 

Dead  ! — -  Oh  the  blessed  saints  ! 
You  would  be  glad,  then,  if  Pepita  died  ? 

Juan. 

Glad  !  why  ?  Dead  maidens  are  not  merry.  Ghosts 
Are  doleful  company.  I  like  you  living. 


108 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Pepita. 

I  think  you  like  me  not.  I  wish  you  did. 

Sometimes  you  sing  to  me  and  make  me  dance. 
Another  time  you  take  no  heed  of  me, 

Not  though  I  kiss  my  hand  to  you  and  smile. 

But  Andres  would  be  glad  if  I  kissed  him. 

Juan. 

My  poor  Pepita,  I  am  old. 

Pepita. 

No,  no. 

You  have  no  wrinkles. 

Juan. 

Yes,  I  have  —  within ; 

The  wrinkles  are  within,  my  little  bird. 

Why,  I  have  lived  through  twice  a  thousand  years, 
And  kept  the  company  of  men  whose  bones 
Crumbled  before  the  blessed  Virgin  lived. 

Pepita  ( crossing  herself). 

Nay,  God  defend  us,  that  is  wicked  talk ! 

You  say  it  but  to  scorn  me.  (  With  a  sob.)  I  will  go. 

Juan. 

Stay,  little  pigeon.  I  am  not  unkind. 

Come,  sit  upon  the  wall.  Nay,  never  cry. 

Give  me  your  cheek  to  kiss.  There,  cry  no  more ! 

(Pepita,  sitting  on  the  low  parapet,  puts  up  her 
cheek  to  Juan,  who  kisses  it,  putting  his 
hand  under  her  chin.  She  takes  his  hand 
and  kisses  it.) 


3PHE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


10  & 


Pepita. 

I  like  to  kiss  your  hand.  It  is  so  good,  — ■ 

So  smooth  and  soft. 

Juan. 

Well,  well,  I  ’ll  sing  to  you, 
Pepita. 

A  pretty  song,  loving  and  merry  ? 

Juan. 

Yes. 

(Juan  sings.) 

Memory , 

Tell  to  me 
What  is  fair , 

.  Past  compare, 

In  the  land  of  Tubal  ? 

Is  it  Spring's 
Lovely  things , 

Blossoms  white , 
j Rosy  dight  ? 

Then  it  is  Pepita. 

Summer's  crest 
Bed-gold  tressed , 

Corn-flowers  peeping  under?  — * 

Idle  noons , 

Lingering  moons , 

Sudden  cloud , 

Lightning's  shroud , 

Sudden  rain , 

Quick  again 

Smiles  inhere  late  was  thunder?-- 


110 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Are  all  these 
Made  to  please  ? 

So  too  is  Pepita . 

Autumn's  prime. 

Apple-time , 

Smooth  cheek  round, 

Heart  all  sound  ?  — 

Is  it  this 

You  would  kiss  ? 

Then  it  is  Pepita. 

You  can  bring 
Ho  sweet  thing , 

Put  my  mind 
Still  shall  find 
It  is  my  Pepita. 

Memory 
Says  to  me 
It  is  she,  — 

She  is  fair 
Past  compare 

In  the  land  of  Tubal . 

Pepita  ( seizing  Juan’s  hand  again). 

Oh,  then,  yon  do  love  me  ? 

Juan. 

Yes,  in  the  song. 
Pepita  (sadly). 

Not  out  of  it  ?  —  not  love  me  out  of  it  ? 

Juan. 

Only  a  little  out  of  it,  my  bird. 

When  I  was  singing  I  was  Andres,  say, 

Or  one  who  loves  you  better  still  than  Andrds. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


Ill 


Pepita. 

Not  yourself  ? 

Juan. 

No! 

Pepita  (throwing  his  hand  down  pettishly ). 

Then  take  it  back  again  l 

I  will  not  have  it ! 

Juan. 

Listen,  little  one. 

J uan  is  not  a  living  man  all  by  himself : 

His  life  is  breathed  in  him  by  other  men, 

And  they  speak  out  of  him.  He  is  their  voice. 

Juan’s  own  life  he  gave  once  quite  away. 

It  was  Pepita’s  lover  singing  then,  —  not  Juan. 

We  old,  old  poets,  if  we  kept  our  hearts, 

Should  hardly  know  them  from  another  man’s. 

They  shrink  to  make  room  for  the  many  more 
We  keep  within  us.  There,  now,  —  one  more  kiss, 
And  then  go  home  again. 

Pepita  (a  little  frightened,  after  letting  Juan  kiss  her)x 

You  are  not  wicked  ? 

J  UAN. 

Ask  your  confessor,  —  tell  him  what  I  said, 

(Pepita  goes,  while  Juan  thrums  his  lute  agains 
and  sings.) 

Came  a  pretty  maid 
By  the  moon's  pure  light , 

Loved  me  well ,  she  said , 

Eyes  with  tears  all  bright , 

A  pretty  maid  ! 


112 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


But  too  late  she  strayed , 
Moonlight  pure  teas  ther *  ; 
She  was  naught  but  shade 
Hiding  the  more  fair , 

The  heavenly  maid  / 


A  vaulted  room  all  stone.  The  light  shed  from  a  high 
lamp.  Wooden  chairs ,  a  desk,  book-shelves.  The 
Prior,  in  white  frock,  a  black  rosary  with  a  cruci¬ 
fix  of  ebony  and  ivory  at  his  side,  is  walking  up  and 
down,  holding  a  written  paper  in  his  hands,  which 
are  clasped  behind  him. 

What  if  this  witness  lies  ?  he  says  he  heard  her 
Counting  her  blasphemies  on  a  rosary, 

And  in  a  bold  discourse  with  Salomo, 

Say  that  the  Host  was  naught  but  ill-mixed  flour, 

That  it  was  mean  to  pray,  —  she  never  prayed. 

I  know  the  man  who  wrote  this  for  a  cur, 

Who  follows  Hon  Diego,  sees  life’s  good 
In  scraps  my  nephew  flings  to  him.  What  then  ? 
Particular  lies  may  speak  a  general  truth. 

I  guess  him  false,  but  know  her  heretic,  — 

Know  her  for  Satan’s  instrument,  bedecked 
With  heathenish  charms,  luring  the  souls  of  men 
To  damning  trust  in  good  unsanctified. 

Let  her  be  prisoned,  —  questioned,  —  she  will  give 
Witness  against  herself,  that  were  this  false  .... 

{He  looks  at  the  paper  again  and  reads ,  then 
again  thrusts  it  behind  him.) 

The  matter  and  the  color  are  not  false : 

The  form  concerns  the  witness,  not  the  judge ; 

For  proof  is  gathered  by  the  sifting  mind, 

Not  given  in  crude  and  formal  circumstance. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


113 


Suspicion  is  a  heaven-sent  lamp,  and  I,  — 

I,  watchman  of  the  Holy  Office,  bear 

That  lamp  in  trust.  I  will  keep  faithful  watch. 

The  Holy  Inquisition’s  discipline 
Is  mercy,  saving  her,  if  penitent,  — 

God  grant  it !  —  else,  —  root  up  the  poison-plant, 
Though ’t  were  a  lily  with  a  golden  heart ! 

This  spotless  maiden  with  her  pagan  soul 
Is  the  arch-enemy’s  trap :  he  turns  his  back 
On  all  the  prostitutes,  and  watches  her 
To  see  her  poison  men  with  false  belief 
In  rebel  virtues.  She  has  poisoned  Silva ; 

His  shifting  mind,  dangerous  in  fitfulness, 

Strong  in  the  contradiction  of  itself, 

Carries  his  young  ambitions  wearily, 

As  holy  vows  regretted.  Once  he  seemed 

The  fresh-oped  flower  of  Christian  knighthood,  born 

For  feats  of  holy  daring  ;  and  I  said : 

“  That  half  of  life  which  I,  as  monk,  renounce 
Shall  be  fulfilled  in  him :  Silva  will  be 
That  saintly  noble,  that  wise  warrior, 

That  blameless  excellence  in  worldly  gifts 
I  would  have  been,  had  I  not  asked  to  live 
The  higher  life  of  man  impersonal 
Who  reigns  o’er  all  things  by  refusing  all. 

What  is  his  promise  now  ?  Apostasy 
From  every  high  intent :  —  languid,  nay,  gone, 

The  prompt  devoutness  of  a  generous  heart, 

The  strong  obedience  of  a  reverent  will, 

That  breathes  the  Church’s  air  and  sees  her  lighv 
He  peers  and  strains  with  feeble  questioning. 

Or  else  he  jests.  He  thinks  I  know  it  not,  — 

I  who  have  read  the  history  of  his  lapse, 

As  clear  as  it  is  writ  in  the  angel’s  book. 

He  will  defy  me,  —  flings  great  words  at  me,  — 

8 


114 


POEMS  OF  GEORGF  ELIOT. 


Me  who  have  governed  all  oui'  house’s  acts, 

Since  I,  a  stripling,  ruled  his  stripling  father. 
This  maiden  is  the  cause,  and  if  they  wed, 

The  Holy  War  may  count  a  captain  lost. 

For  better  he  were  dead  than  keep  his  place, 

And  fill  it  infamously :  in  God’s  war 
Slackness  is  infamy.  Shall  I  stand  by 
And  let  the  tempter  win  ?  defraud  Christ’s  cause, 
And  blot  his  banner  ?  —  all  for  scruples  weak 
Of  pity  towards  their  young  and  frolicsome  blood 
Or  nice  discrimination  of  the  tool 
By  which  my  hand  shall  work  a  sacred  rescue  ? 
The  fence  of  rules  is  for  the  purblind  crowd ; 
They  walk  by  averaged  precepts ;  sovereign  men. 
Seeing  by  God’s  light,  see  the  general 
By  seeing  all  the  special,  —  own  no  rule 
But  their  full  vision  of  the  moment’s  worth. 

’T  is  so  God  governs,  using  wicked  men,  — 

Nay,  scheming  fiends,  to  work  his  purposes. 

Evil  that  good  may  come  ?  Measure  the  good 
Before  you  say  what ’s  evil.  Perjury  ? 

I  scorn  the  perjurer,  but  I  will  use  him 
To  serve  the  holy  truth.  There  is  no  lie 
Save  in  his  soul,  and  let  his  soul  be  judged. 

I  know  the  truth,  and  act  upon  the  truth. 

O  God,  thou  knowest  that  my  will  is  pure. 

Thy  servant  owns  naught  for  himself,  his  wealth 
Is  but  obedience.  And  I  have  sinned 
In  keeping  small  respects  of  human  love,  — 
Calling  it  mercy.  Mercy  ?  Where  evil  is 
True  mercy  must  be  terrible.  Mercy  would  sav®. 
Save  whom  ?  Save  serpents,  locusts,  wolves  ? 

Or  out  of  pity  let  the  idiots  gorge 

Within  a  famished  town  ?  Or  save  the  gains 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


in 


Of  men  who  trade  in  poison  lest  they  starve  ? 

Save  all  things  mean  and  foul  that  clog  the  earth. 

Stifling  the  better  ?  Save  the  fools  who  cling 
For  refuge  round  their  hideous  idol’s  limbs, 

So  leave  the  idol  grinning  unconsumed, 

And  save  the  fools  to  breed  idolaters  ? 

Oh  mercy  worthy  of  the  licking  hound 
That  knows  no  future  but  its  feeding  time ! 

Mercy  has  eyes  that  pierce  the  ages,  —  sees 
From  heights  divine  of  the  eternal  purpose 
Far-scattered  consequence  in  its  vast  sum ; 

Chooses  to  save,  but  with  illumined  vision 
Sees  that  to  save  is  greatly  to  destroy. 

’T  is  so  the  Holy  Inquisition  sees :  its  wrath 
Is  fed  from  the  strong  heart  of  wisest  love. 

For  love  must  needs  make  hatred.  He  who  loves 
God  and  his  law  must  hate  the  foes  of  God. 

And  I  have  sinned  in  being  merciful : 

Being  slack  in  hate,  I  have  been  slack  in  love. 

(. He  takes  the  crucifix  and  holds  it  up  before  him.) 
Thou  shuddering,  bleeding,  thirsting,  dying  God, 

Thou  Man  of  Sorrows,  scourged  and  bruised  and  torn, 
Suffering  to  save,  —  wilt  thou  not  judge  the  world  ? 

This  arm  which  held  the  children,  this  pale  hand 
That  gently  touched  the  eyelids  of  the  blind, 

And  opened  passive  to  the  cruel  nail, 

Shall  one  day  stretch  to  leftward  of  thy  throne, 

Charged  with  the  power  that  makes  the  lightning  strong 
And  hurl  thy  foes  to  everlasting  hell. 

And  thou,  Immaculate  Mother,  Virgin  mild, 

Thou  sevenfold-pierced,  thou  pitying,  pleading  Queen, 
Shalt  see  and  smile,  while  the  black  filthy  souls 
Sink  with  foul  weight  to  their  eternal  place, 

Purging  the  Holy  Light.  Yea,  I  have  sinned 
And  called  it  mercy.  But  I  shrink  no  more. 


116 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


To-morrow  morn  this  temptress  shall  be  safe 
Under  the  Holy  Inquisition’s  key. 

He  thinks  to  wed  her,  and  defy  me  then, 

She  being  shielded  by  our  house’s  name. 

But  he  shall  never  wed  her.  I  have  said. 

The  time  is  come.  Exurge,  Domine, 

Judica  causam  tuam,.  Let  thy  foes 
Be  driven  as  the  smoke  before  the  wind, 
And  melt  like  wax  upon  the  furnace  lip ! 


4  large  chamber  richly  furnished  opening  on  a  terrace- 
garden ,  the  trees  visible  through  the  window  in  faint 
moonlight .  Flowers  hanging  about  the  window,  lit  up 
by  the  tapers.  The  casket  of  jewels  open  on  a  table. 
The  gold  necklace  lying  near.  Fed  alma,  splendidly 
dressed  and  adorned  with  pearls  and  rubies ,  is  walk¬ 
ing  up  and  down. 

So  soft  a  night  was  never  made  for  sleep, 

But  for  the  waking  of  the  finer  sense 
To  every  murmuring  and  gentle  sound, 

To  subtlest  odors,  pulses,  visitings 

That  touch  our  frames  with  wings  too  delicate 

To  be  discerned  amid  the  blare  of  day. 

(She  pauses  near  the  window  to  gather  some  jas * 
mine :  then  walks  again.) 

Surely  these  flowers  keep  happy  watch,  —  their  breath 
Is  their  fond  memory  of  the  loving  light. 

I  often  rue  the  hours  I  lose  in  sleep : 

It  is  a  bliss  too  brief,  only  to  see 

This  glorious  world,  to  hear  the  voice  of  love, 

To  feel  the  touch,  the  breath  of  tenderness, 

And  then  to  rest  as  from  a  spectacle. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


117 


A  need  the  curtained  stillness  of  the  night 
To  live  through  all  my  happy  hours  again 
With  more  selection, — cull  them  quite  away 
Prom  blemished  moments.  Then  in  loneliness 
The  face  that  bent  before  me  in  the  day 
Rises  in  its  own  light,  more  vivid  seems 
Painted  upon  the  dark,  and  ceaseless  glows 
With  sweet  solemnity  of  gazing  love, 

Till  like  the  heavenly  blue  it  seems  to  grow 
Nearer,  more  kindred,  and  more  cherishing, 

Mingling  with  all  my  being.  Then  the  words, 

The  tender  low-toned  words  come  back  again, 

With  repetition  welcome  as  the  chime 
Of  softly  hurrying  brooks,  —  “  My  only  love,  — 

My  love  while  life  shall  last,  —  my  own  redalma!,> 
Oh,  it  is  mine,  —  the  joy  that  once  has  been ! 

Poor  eager  hope  is  but  a  stammerer, 

Must  listen  dumbly  to  great  memory, 

Who  makes  our  bliss  the  sweeter  by  her  telling. 

(She  pauses  a  moment  musingly .) 

But  that  dumb  hope  is  still  a  sleeping  guard 
Whose  quiet  rhythmic  breath  saves  me  from  dread 
In  this  fair  paradise.  For  if  the  earth 
Broke  off  with  flower-fringed  edge,  visibly  sheer, 
Leaving  no  footing  for  my  forward  step 
But  empty  blackness  .... 

Nay,  there  is  no  fear,  — 
They  will  renew  themselves,  day  and  my  joy, 

And  all  that  past  which  is  securely  mine, 

Will  be  the  hidden  root  that  nourishes 
Our  still  unfolding,  ever-ripening  love  ! 

(  While  she  is  littering  the  last  words,  a  little  bird 
falls  softly  on  the  floor  behind  her  ;  she  hears 
the  light  sound  of  its  fall  and  turns  round  ) 


118 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Did  something  enter  ?  .  . . . 

Yes,  this  little  bird  .... 

(She  lifts  it.) 

Dead  and  yet  warm :  ?t  was  seeking  sanctuary, 

And  died,  perhaps  of  fright,  at  the  altar  foot. 

Stay,  there  is  something  tied  beneath  the  wing ! 

A  strip  of  linen,  streaked  with  blood,  —  what  blood  ? 
The  streaks  are  written  words,  —  are  sent  to  me,  — 

0  God,  are  sent  to  me  !  Dear  child,  Fedalma , 

Be  brave ,  give  no  alarm ,  —  your  Father  comes  ! 

(She  lets  the  bird  fall  again.) 

My  Father  ....  comes  ....  my  Father . 

(She  turns  in  quivering  expectation  toward  the 
window.  There  is  perfect  stillness  a  few  mo¬ 
ments  until  Zarca  appears  at  the  window. 
He  enters  quickly  and  noiselessly;  then  stands 
still  at  his  full  height ,  and  at  a  distance  from 
Fedalma.) 

Fedalma  (in  a  low  distinct  tone  of  terror). 

It  is  he ! 

I  said  his  fate  had  laid  its  hold  on  mine. 

Zarca  (advancing  a  step  or  two). 

You  know,  then,  who  I  am  ? 

Fedalma. 

The  prisoner,  — 

He  whom  I  saw  in  fetters,  —  and  this  necklace  — 

Zarca. 

Was  played  with  by  your  fingers  when  it  hung 
About  my  neck,  full  fifteen  years  ago  ! 

Fedalma  (starts,  looks  at  the  necklace  and  handles 
it,  then  speaks  as  if  unconsciously ). 

Full  fifteen  years  ago ! 


“  My  father  .  .  .  comes  .  .  .  my  father.” 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


119 


Zarc  a. 

The  very  day  • 

I  lost  you,  when  you  wore  a  tiny  gown 
Of  scarlet  cloth  with  golden  broidery : 

’T  was  clasped  in  front  by  coins,  —  two  golden  coins. 
The  one  towards  the  left  was  split  in  two 
Across  the  King’s  head,  right  from  brow  to  nape, 

A  dent  i’  the  middle  nicking  in  the  cheek. 

You  see  I  know  the  little  gown  by  heart. 

Fed  alma  ( growing  'paler  and  more  tremulous). 

Yes.  It  is  true,  —  I  have  the  gown,  —  the  clasps,  — 
The  braid,  —  sore  tarnished :  —  it  is  long  ago  ! 

Zarca. 

But  yesterday  to  me  ;  for  till  to-day 
I  saw  you  always  as  that  little  child. 

And  when  they  took  my  necklace  from  me,  still 
Your  fingers  played  about  it  on  my  neck, 

And  still  those  buds  of  fingers  on  your  feet 
Caught  in  its  meshes  as  you  seemed  to  climb 
Up  to  my  shoulder.  You  were  not  stolen  ail. 

You  had  a  double  life  fed  from  my  heart . 

(Fed alma,  letting  fall  the  necklace ,  makes  an 
impulsive  movement  towards  him  with  out¬ 
stretched  hands.) 

For  the  Zincalo  loves  his  children  well. 

Fedalma  ( shrinking ,  trembling ,  and  letting  fall  her 

hands). 

How  came  it  that  you  sought  me,  —  no,  —  I  mean 
How  came  it  that  you  knew  me,  —  that  you  lost  me  ? 

Zarca  (standing  perfectly  still). 

Poor  child  !  I  see,  I  see,  — your  ragged  father 
Is  welcome  as  the  piercing  wintry  wind 


120 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Within  this  silken  chamber.  It  is  well. 

I  would  not  have  a  child  who  stooped  to  feign. 

And  aped  a  sudden  love.  True  hate  were  better. 

• 

Fed  alma  ( raising  her  eyes  towards  him ,  with  a  flash 
of  admiration ,  and  looking  at  him  fixedly). 

Father,  how  was  it  that  we  lost  each  other  ? 

Zarca. 

I  lost  you  as  a  man  may  lose  a  diamond 
Wherein  he  has  compressed  his  total  wealth, 

Or  the  right  hand  whose  cunning  makes  him  great : 

I  lost  you  by  a  trivial  accident. 

Marauding  Spaniards,  sweeping  like  a  storm 
Over  a  spot  within  the  Moorish  bounds, 

Near  where  our  camp  lay,  doubtless  snatched  you  up, 
When  Zind,  your  nurse,  as  she  confessed,  was  urged 
By  burning  thirst  to  wander  towards  the  stream, 

And  leave  you  on  the  sand  some  paces  off 
Playing  with  pebbles,  while  she  dog-like  lapped. 

’T  was  so  I  lost  you,  —  never  saw  you  more 
Until  to-day  I  saw  you  dancing  !  Saw 
The  child  of  the  Zincalo  making  sport 
For  those  who  spit  upon  her  people’s  name. 

Fedalma  ( vehemently ). 

It  was  not  sport.  What  if  the  world  looked  on  ? 

1  danced  for  joy,  —  for  love  of  all  the  world. 

But  when  you  looked  at  me  my  joy  was  stabbed,  — - 
Stabbed  with  your  pain.  I  wondered  ....  now  I 
know  .... 

It  was  my  father’s  pain. 

( She  pauses  a  moment  with  eyes  bent  downward, 
during  which  Zarca  examines  her  face.  Them 
she  says  quickly ,) 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


121 


How  were  you  sure 

At  once  I  was  your  child  ? 

Zarca. 

Oh,  I  had  witness  strong 
As  any  Cadi  needs,  before  I  saw  you ! 

I  fitted  all  my  memories  with  the  chat 

Of  one  named  J uan,  —  one  whose  rapid  talk 

Showers  like  the  blossoms  from  a  light-twigged  shrub, 

If  you  but  coughed  beside  it.  I  learned  all 
The  story  of  your  Spanish  nurture,  —  all 
The  promise  of  your  fortune.  When  at  last 
I  fronted  you,  my  little  maid  full-grown, 

Belief  was  turned  to  vision :  then  I  saw 

That  she  whom  Spaniards  called  the  bright  Fedalma,  «- 

The  little  red-frocked  foundling  three  years  old,  — 

Grown  to  such  perfectness  the  Christian  Duke 

Had  wooed  her  for  his  Duchess,  —  was  the  child, 

Sole  offspring  of  my  flesh,  that  Lambra  bore 
One  hour  before  the  Christian,  hunting  us, 

Hurried  her  on  to  death.  Therefore  I  sought  you, 
Therefore  I  come  to  claim  you  —  claim  my  child, 

Not  from  the  Spaniard,  not  from  him  who  robbed, 

But  from  herself. 

(Fedalma  has  gradually  approached  close  to  Zarca, 
and  with  a  low  sob  sinks  on  her  knees  before 
him.  He  stoops  to  kiss  her  broiv,  and  lays  his 
hands  on  her  head.) 

Zarca  ( with  solemn  tenderness). 

Then  my  child  owns  her  father  ? 

Fedalma. 

Father  !  ye*. 

I  will  eat  dust  before  I  will  deny 
The  flesh  I  spring  from. 


122 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Zarca. 

There  my  daughter  spoke 
Away  then  with  these  rubies  ! 

(lie  seizes  the  circlet  of  rubies  and  flings  it  on  the 
ground.  Fed  alma,  starting  from  the  ground 
with  strong  emotion ,  shrinks  backward .) 

Such  a  crown 

Is  infamy  on  a  Zincala’s  brow. 

It  is  her  people’s  blood,  decking  her  shame. 

Fedalma  ( after  a  moment,  slowly  and  distinctly ,  as  ij 

accepting  a  doom). 

Then  ....  I  am  ....  a  Zincala  ? 

Zarca. 

Of  a  blood 

Unmixed  as  virgin  wine-juice. 

Fedalma. 

Of  a  race 

More  outcast  and  despised  than  Moor  or  Jew  ? 

Zarca. 

Yes  :  wanderers  whom  no  god  took  knowledge  of 
To  give  them  laws,  to  fight  for  them,  or  blight 
Another  race  to  make  them  ampler  room ; 

A  people  with  no  home  even  in  memory, 

No  dimmest  lore  of  giant  ancestors 
To  make  a  common  hearth,  for  piety. 

Fedalma. 

A  race  that  lives  on  prey  as  foxes  do 
With  stealthy,  petty  rapine :  so  despised. 

It  is  not  persecuted,  only  spurned, 

Crushed  underfoot,  warred  on  by  chance  like  rats. 

Or  swarming  flies,  or  reptiles  of  the  sea 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


123 


Dragged  in  the  net  unsought,  and  flung  far  off 
To  perish  as  they  may  ? 

Zarca. 

You  paint  us  well. 

So  abject  are  the  men  whose  blood  we  share ; 

Untutored,  unbefriended,  unendowed  ; 

No  favorites  of  heaven  or  of  men. 

Therefore  I  cling  to  them !  Therefore  no  lure 
Shall  draw  me  to  disown  them,  or  forsake 
The  meagre  wandering  herd  that  lows  for  help 
And  needs  me  for  its  guide,  to  seek  my  pasture 
Among  the  well-fed  beeves  that  graze  at  will. 

Because  our  race  have  no  great  memories, 

I  will  so  live  they  shall  remember  me 

For  deeds  of  such  divine  beneficence 

As  rivers  have,  that  teach  men  what  is  good 

By  blessing  them.  I  have  been  schooled,  —  have  caught 

Lore  from  the  Hebrew,  deftness  from  the  Moor,  — 

Know  the  rich  heritage,  the  milder  life, 

Of  nations  fathered  by  a  mighty  Past ; 

But  were  our  race  accursed  (as  they  who  make 
Good  luck  a  god  count  all  unlucky  men) 

I  would  espouse  their  curse  sooner  than  take 
My  gifts  from  brethren  naked  of  all  good, 

And  lend  them  to  the  rich  for  usury. 

(Fedalma  again  advances ,  and  'putting  forth  her 
right  hand  grasps  Zarca’s  left.  He  places  his 
other  hand  on  her  shoulder.  They  stand  so 
looking  at  each  other.') 

Zarca. 

And  you,  my  child  ?  are  you  of  other  mind. 

Choosing  forgetfulness,  hating  the  truth 
That  says  you  are  akin  to  needy  men  ?  — 


124 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Wishing  your  father  were  some  Christian  Duke, 

Who  could  hang  Gypsies  when  their  task  was  done, 
While  you,  his  daughter,  were  not  bound  to  care  ? 

Fed  alma  (in  a  troubled ,  eager  voice). 

No,  I  should  always  care — -I  cared  for  you  — 

For  all,  before  I  dreamed  .... 

Zarca. 

Before  you  dreamed 

You  were  a  born  Zincala,  — in  the  bonds 

Of  the  Zincali’s  faith. 

> 

Fed  alma  (bitterly). 

Zincali’s  faith  ? 

Men  say  they  have  none. 

Zarca. 

Oh,  it  is  a  faith 

Taught  by  no  priest,  but  by  their  beating  hearts. 

Faith  to  each  other :  the  fidelity 

Of  fellow-wanderers  in  a  desert  place 

Who  share  the  same  dire  thirst,  and  therefore  share 

The  scanty  water  :  the  fidelity 

Of  men  whose  pulses  leap  with  kindred  fire, 

Who  in  the  flash  of  eyes,  the  clasp  of  hands, 

The  speech  that  even  in  lying  tells  the  truth 
Of  heritage  inevitable  as  past  deeds, 

Nay,  in  the  silent  bodily  presence  feel 

The  mystic  stirring  of  a  common  life 

Which  makes  the  many  one  :  fidelity 

To  that  deep  consecrating  oath  our  sponsor  Fate 

M ade  through  our  infant  breath  when  we  were  born, 

The  fellow-heirs  of  that  small  island,  Life, 

Where  we  must  dig  and  sow  and  reap  with  brothers. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


Fear  thou  that  oath,  my  daughter,  —  nay,  not  fear, 
But  love  it ;  for  the  sanctity  of  oaths 
Lies  not  in  lightning  that  avenges  them, 

But  in  the  injury  wrought  by  broken  bonds 
And  in  the  garnered  good  of  human  trust. 

And  you  have  sworn,  —  even  with  your  infant  breath 
You  too  were  pledged  .... 

Fedalma  (lets  go  Zarca’s  hand  and  sinks  backward 
on  her  knees ,  with  bent  head ,  as  if  before  some  im¬ 
pending  crushing  weight ). 

What  have  I  sworn  ? 

Zarca. 

To  live  the  life  of  the  Zincala’s  child : 

The  child  of  him  who,  being  chief,  will  be 

The  savior  of  his  tribe,  or  if  he  fail 

Will  choose  to  fail  rather  than  basely  win 

The  prize  of  renegades.  Nay  —  will  not  choose  — 

Is  there  a  choice  for  strong  souls  to  be  weak  ? 

For  men  erect  to  crawl  like  hissing  snakes  ? 

I  choose  not,  —  I  am  Zarca.  Let  him  choose 
Who  halts  and  wavers,  having  appetite 
To  feed  on  garbage.  You,  my  child,  —  are  you 
Halting  and  wavering  ? 

Fedalma  (raising  her  head). 

Say  what  is  my  task  ? 

Zarca. 

To  be  the  angel  of  a  homeless  tribe . 

To  help  me  bless  a  race  taught  by  no  prophet, 

And  make  their  name,  now  but  a  badge  of  scorn, 

A  glorious  banner  floating  in  their  midst, 

Stirring  the  air  they  breathe  with  impulses 
Of  generous  pride,  exalting  fellowship 


126 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Until  it  soars  to  magnanimity. 

I  ’ll  guide  my  brethren  forth  to  their  new  land, 
Where  they  shall  plant  and  sow  and  reap  their  own, 
Serving  each  other’s  needs,  and  so  be  spurred 
To  skill  in  all  the  arts  that  succor  life ; 

Where  we  may  kindle  our  first  altar-fire 
From  settled  hearths,  and  call  our  Holy  Place 
The  hearth  that  binds  us  in  one  family. 

That  land  awaits  them  :  they  await  their  chief,  — 
Me  who  am  prisoned.  All  depends  on  you. 

Fed  alma  (rising  to  her  full  height ,  and  looking  sol 

emnly  at  Zakca). 

Father,  your  child  is  ready  !  She  will  not 
Forsake  her  kindred:  she  will  brave  all  scorn 
Sooner  than  scorn  herself.  Let  Spaniards  all, 
Christians,  Jews,  Moors,  shoot  out  the  lip  and  say, 

“  Lo,  the  first  hero  in  a  tribe  of  thieves.” 

Is  it  not  written  so  of  them  ?  They,  too, 

Were  slaves,  lost,  wandering,  sunk  beneath  a  curse 
Till  Moses,  Christ,  and  Mahomet  were  born, 

Till  beings  lonely  in  their  greatness  lived, 

And  lived  to  save  their  people.  Father,  listen. 
To-morrow  the  Duke  weds  me  secretly  : 

But  straight  he  will  present  me  as  his  wife 
To  all  his  household,  cavaliers  and  dames 
And  noble  pages.  Then  I  will  declare 
Before  them  all :  “  I  am  his  daughter,  his, 

The  Gypsy’s,  owner  of  this  golden  badge.” 

Then  I  shall  win  your  freedom ;  then  the  Duke,  — 
Why,  he  will  be  your  son  !  — will  send  you  forth 
With  aid  and  honors.  Then,  before  all  eyes 
I  ’ll  clasp  this  badge  on  you,  and  lift  my  brow 
For  you  to  kiss  it,  saying  by  that  sign, 

“  I  glory  in  my  father.”  This,  to-morrow. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


127 


Zarca. 

A  woman’s  dream,  —  who  thinks  by  smiling  well 
To  ripen  figs  in  frost.  What !  marry  first, 

And  then  proclaim  your  birth  ?  Enslave  yourself 
To  use  your  freedom  ?  Share  another’s  name, 

Then  treat  it  as  you  will  ?  How  will  that  tune 
Ring  in  your  bridegroom’s  ears,  —  that  sudden  song 
Of  triumph  in  your  Gypsy  father  ? 

Fedalma  ( discouraged ). 

Nay, 

I  meant  not  so.  We  marry  hastily  — 

Yet  there  is  time  — there  will  be  :  —  in  less  space 
Than  he  can  take  to  look  at  me,  I  ’ll  speak 
And  tell  him  all.  Oh,  I  am  not  afraid ! 

His  love  for  me  is  stronger  than  all  hate ; 

Nay,  stronger  than  my  love,  which  cannot  sway 
Demons  that  haunt  me, — tempt  me  to  rebel. 

Were  he  Fedalma  and  I  Silva,  he 
Could  love  oonfession,  prayers,  and  tonsured  monks 
If  my  soul  craved  them.  He  will  never  hate 
The  race  that  bore  him  what  he  loves  the  most. 

I  shall  but  do  more  strongly  what  I  will, 

Having  his  will  to  help  me.  And  to-morrow, 

Father,  as  surely  as  this  heart  shall  beat, 

You,  every  chained  Zincalo,  shall  be  free. 

Zarca  (coming  nearer  to  her,  and  laying  his  hand  on 

her  shoulder). 

Too  late,  too  poor  a  service  that,  my  child  ! 

Not  so  the  woman  who  would  save  her  tribe 
Must  help  its  heroes,  —  not  by  wrordy  breath, 

By  easy  prayers  strong  in  a  lover’s  ear, 

By  showering  wreaths  and  sweets  and  wafted  kisses, 
And  then,  when  all  the  smiling  work  is  done, 


128 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT 


Turning  to  rest  upon  her  down  again, 

And  whisper  languid  pity  for  her  race 
Upon  the  bosom  of  her  alien  spouse. 

Not  to  such  petty  mercies  as  can  fall 

’Twixt  stitch  and  stitch  of  silken  broidery  work, 

Such  miracles  of  mitred  saints  who  pause 
Beneath  their  gilded  canopy  to  heal 
A  man  sun-stricken  :  not  to  such  trim  merit 
As  soils  its  dainty  shoes  for  charity 
And  simpers  meekly  at  the  pious  stain, 

But  never  trod  with  naked  bleeding  feet 

Where  no  man  praised  it,  and  where  no  Church  blessed 

Not  to  such  almsdeeds  fit  for  holidays 

Were  you,  my  daughter,  consecrated,  —  bound 

By  laws  that,  breaking,  you  will  dip  your  bread 

In  murdered  brother’s  blood  and  call  it  sweet,  — 

When  you  were  born  in  the  Zincalo’s  tent, 

And  lifted  up  in  sight  of  all  your  tribe, 

Who  greeted  you  with  shouts  of  loyal  joy, 

Sole  offspring  of  the  chief  in  whom  they  trust 

As  in  the  oft-tried  never-failing  flint 

They  strike  their  fire  from.  Other  work  is  yours. 

Fed  alma. 

What  work  ?  —  what  is  it  that  you  ask  of  me  ? 

Zarca. 

A  work  as  pregnant  as  the  act  of  men 
Who  set  their  ships  aflame  and  spring  to  land, 

A  fatal  deed  .... 

Fed  alma. 

Stay  !  never  utter  it ! 

If  it  can  part  my  lot  from  his  whose  love 
Has  chosen  me.  Talk  not  of  oaths,  of  birth, 

Of  men  as  numerous  as  the  dim  white  stars,  — 

As  cold  and  distant,  too,  for  my  heart’s  pulsa 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


129 


No  ills  on  earth,  though  you  should  count  them  up 
With  grains  to  make  a  mountain,  can  outweigh 
For  me,  his  ill  who  is  my  supreme  love. 

All  sorrows  else  are  but  imagined  flames, 

Making  me  shudder  at  an  unfelt  smart. 

But  his  imagined  sorrow  is  a  tire 
That  scorches  me. 

Zarca. 

I  know,  I  know  it  well,  — 

The  first  young  passionate  Avail  of  spirits  called 
To  some  great  destiny.  In  vain,  my  daughter ! 

Lay  the  young  eagle  in  what  nest  you  will, 

The  cry  and  swoop  of  eagles  overhead 
Vibrate  prophetic  in  its  kindred  frame, 

And  make  it  spread  its  wings  and  poise  itself 
For  the  eagle’s  flight.  Hear  what  you  have  to  do. 

(Fed  alma  breaks  from  him  and  stands  half  averted^ 
as  if  she  dreaded  the  effect  of  his  looks  and 
words  f 

My  comrades  even  now  file  off  their  chains 
In  a  low  turret  by  the  battlements, 

Where  Ave  Avere  locked  Avith  slight"  and  sleepy  guard,  — 
We  who  had  files  hid  in  our  shaggy  hair, 

And  possible  ropes  that  waited  but  our  will 

In  half  our  garments.  Oh,  the  Moorish  blood 

Runs  thick  and  Avarm  to  us,  though  thinned  by  chrism. 

I  found  a  friend  among  our  jailers,  —  one 
Who  loves  the  Gypsy  as  the  Moor’s  ally. 

I  know  the  secrets  of  this  fortress.  Listen. 

Hard  by  yon  terrace  is  a  narrow  stair, 

Cut  in  the  living  rock,  and  at  one  point 
In  its  slow  straggling  course  it  branches  off 
ToAvards  a  Ioav  wooden  door,  that  art  has  bossed 
To  such  unevenness,  it  seems  one  piece 


130 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


With  the  rough-hewn  rock.  Opened,  it.  leads 
Through  a  broad  passage  burrowed  underground 
A  good  half-mile  out  to  the  open  plain ; 

Made  for  escape,  in  dire  extremity 
From  siege  or  burning,  of  the  house’s  wealth 
In  women  or  in  gold.  To  find  that  door 
Needs  one  who  knows  the  number  of  the  steps 
Just  to  the  turning-point ;  to  open  it, 

Needs  one  who  knows  the  secret  of  the  bolt. 

You  have  that  secret :  you  will  ope  that  door, 

And  fly  with  us. 

Fedalma  ( receding  a  little ,  and  gathering  herself  up 
in  an  attitude  of  resolve  opposite  to  Zarcd). 

No,  I  will  never  fly  ! 

Never  forsake  that  chief  half  of  my  soul 
Where  lies  my  love.  I  swear  to  set  you  free. 

Ask  for  no  more  ;  it  is  not  possible. 

Father,  my  soul  is  not  too  base  to  ring 

At  touch  of  your  great  thoughts  ;  nay,  in  my  blood 

There  streams  the  sense  unspeakable  of  kind, 

As  leopard  feels  at  ease  with  leopard.  But,  — 

Look  at  these  hands  !  You  say  when  they  were  little 
They  played  about  the  gold  upon  your  neck. 

I  do  believe  it,  for  their  tiny  pulse 
Made  record  of  it  in  the  inmost  coil 
Of  growing  memory.  But  see  them  now  ! 

Oh  they  have  made  fresh  record ;  twined  themselves 
With  other  throbbing  hands  whose  pulses  feed 
Not  memories  only  but  a  blended  life, — 

Life  that  will  bleed  to  death  if  it  be  severed. 

Have  pity  on  me,  father  !  Wait  the  morning; 

Say  you  will  wait  the  morning.  I  will  win 
Your  freedom  openly :  you  shall  go  forth 
With  aid  and  honors.  Silva  will  deny 
Naught  to  my  asking  .... 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


131 


Zarca  ( with  contemptuous  decision). 

Till  you  ask  him  aught 
Wherein  he  is  powerless.  Soldiers  even  now 
Murmur  against  him  that  he  risks  the  town, 

And  forfeits  all  the  prizes  of  a  foray 

To  get  his  bridal  pleasure  with  a  bride 

Too  low  for  him.  They  ’ll  murmur  more  and  louder 

If  captives  of  our  pith  and  sinew,  fit 

For  all  the  work  the  Spaniard  hates,  are  freed, — 

Now,  too,  when  Spanish  hands  are  scanty.  What, 

Turn  Gypsies  loose  instead  of  hanging  them  ! 

’T  is  flat  against  the  edict.  Nay,  perchance 
Murmurs  aloud  may  turn  to  silent  threats 
Of  some  well-sharpened  dagger ;  for  your  Duke 
Has  to  his  heir  a  pious  cousin,  who  deems 
The  Cross  were  better  served  if  he  were  Duke. 

Such  good  you  ’ll  work  your  lover  by  your  prayers. 

Fed  alma. 

Then,  I  will  free  you  now !  You  shall  be  safe, 

Nor  he  be  blamed,  save  for  his  love  to  me. 

I  will  declare  what  I  have  done :  the  deed 
May  put  our  marriage  off . 


Zarca. 

Ay,  till  the  time 

When  you  shall  be  a  queen  in  Africa, 

And  he  be  prince  enough  to  sue  for  you. 

Yrou  cannot  free  ns  and  come  back  to  him. 


And  why  ? 


Fed  alma. 
Zarca. 


I  would  compel  you  to  go  forth. 
Fedalma. 


You  tell  me  that  ? 


132 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Zarca. 

Yes,  for  I  M  have  you  choose*, 
Though,  being  of  the  blood  you  are,  —  my  blood,  — « 
You  have  no  right  to  choose. 

Fed  alma. 

I  only  owe 

A  daughter’s  debt ;  I  was  not  born  a  slave. 

Zarca. 

No,  not  a  slave  ;  but  you  were  born  to  reign. 

’T  is  a  compulsion  of  a  higher  sort, 

Whose  fetters  are  the  net  invisible 
That  holds  all  life  together.  Royal  deeds 
May  make  long  destinies  for  multitudes, 

And  you  are  called  to  do  them.  You  belong 
Not  to  the  petty  round  of  circumstance 
That  makes  a  woman’s  lot,  but  to  your  tribe, 

Who  trust  in  me  and  in  my  blood  with  trust 
That  men  call  blind ;  but  it  is  only  blind 
As  nnyeaned  reason  is,  that  growing  stirs 
Within  the  womb  of  superstition. 

Fed  alma. 

No! 

I  belong  to  him  who  loves  me  —  whom  I  love  — 

Who  chose  me — whom  I  chose  —  to  whom  I  pledged 
A  woman’s  truth.  And  that  is  nature  too, 

Issuing  a  fresher  law  than  laws  of  birth. 

Zarca. 

Well,  then,  unmake  yourself  from  a  Zincala,  — 
Unmake  yourself  from  being  child  of  mine  ! 

Take  holy  water,  cross  your  dark  skin  white  ; 

Round  your  proud  eyes  to  foolish  kitten  looks ; 

Walk  mincingly,  and  smirk,  and  Witch  your  robe : 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


133 


Unmake  yourself,  —  doff  all  the  eagle  plumes 
And  be  a  parrot,  chained  to  a  ring  that  slips 
Upon  a  Spaniard’s  thumb,  at  will  of  his 
That  you  should  prattle  o’er  his  words  again ! 

Get  a  small  heart  that  flutters  at  the  smiles 
Of  that  plump  penitent  and  greedy  saint 
Who  breaks  all  treaties  in  the  name  of  God, 

Saves  souls  by  confiscation,  sends  to  heaven 
The  altar-fumes  of  burning  heretics, 

And  chaffers  with  the  Levite  for  the  gold ; 

Holds  Gypsies  beasts  unfit  for  sacrifice, 

So  sweeps  them  out  like  worms  alive  or  dead. 

Go,  trail  your  gold  and  velvet  in  her  presence  !  — 
Conscious  Zincala,  smile  at  your  rare  luck, 

While  half  your  brethren  .... 

Fed  alma. 

I  am  not  so  vile  ! 

It  is  not  to  such  mockeries  that  I  cling, 

Not  to  the  flaring  tow  of  gala-lights  : 

It  is  to  him  —  my  love  —  the  face  of  day. 

Zarca. 

What,  will  you  part  him  from  the  air  he  breathes, 
Never  inhale  with  him  although  you  kiss  him  ? 
Will  you  adopt  a  soul  without  its  thoughts, 

Or  grasp  a  life  apart  from  flesh  and  blood  ? 

Till  then  you  cannot  wed  a  Spanish  Duke 
And  not  wed  shame  at  mention  of  your  race, 

And  not  wed  hardness  to  their  miseries,  — 

Nay,  not  wed  murder.  Would  you  save  my  life 
Yet  stab  my  purpose  ?  maim  my  every  limb, 

Put  out  my  eyes,  and  turn  me  loose  to  feed  ? 

Is  that  salvation  ?  rather  drink  my  blood. 

That  child  of  mine  who  weds  my  enemy,  — 
Adores  a  God  who  took  no  heed  of  Gypsies,  — » 


134 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Forsakes  lier  people,  leaves  their  poverty 
To  join  the  luckier  crowd,  that  mocks  their  woes, 
That  child  of  mine  is  doubly  murderess, 
Murdering  liei  father’s  hope,  her  people’s  trust. 
Such  draughts  are  mingled  in  your  cup  of  love. 
.A-iid  when  ^ou  have  become  a  thing  so  poor, 

Your  life  is  all  a  fashion  without  law 
Save  frail  conjecture  of  a  changing  wish, 

Your  worshipped  sun,  your  smiling  face  of  day, 
Will  turn  to  cloudiness,  and  you  will  shiver 
In  your  thin  finery  of  vain  desire. 

Men  call  his  passion  madness ;  and  he,  too, 

May  learn  to  think  it  madness :  ’t  is  a  thought 
Of  ducal  sanity. 

Fed  alma. 

No,  he  is  true  ! 

And  if  I  part  from  him  I  part  from  joy. 

Oh,  it  was  morning  with  us,  —  I  seemed  young. 

But  now  I  know  I  am  an  aged  sorrow, _ 

My  people’s  sorrow.  Father,  since  I  am  yours,  — 
Since  I  must  walk  an  unslain  sacrifice, 

Carrying  the  knife  within  me,  quivering, _ 

Put  cords  upon  me,  drag  me  to  the  doom 
My  birth  has  laid  upon  me.  See,  I  kneel: 

I  cannot  will  to  go. 

Zarca. 

Will  then  to  stay ! 

Say  you  will  take  your  better,  painted  such 
By  blind  desire,  and  choose  the  hideous  worse 
For  thousands  who  were  happier  but  for  you. 

My  thirty  followers  are  assembled  now 
Without  this  terrace :  I  your  father  wait 
That  you  may  lead  us  forth  to  liberty,  — 

Restore  me  to  my  tribe,  —  five  hundred  men 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


18a 


Whom  I  alone  can  save,  alone  can  rule, 

And  plant  them  as  a  mighty  nation’s  seed. 

Why,  vagabonds  who  clustered  round  one  man, 
Their  voice  of  God,  their  prophet,  and  tlieir  king, 
Twice  grew  to  empire  on  the  teeming  shores 
Of  Africa,  and  sent  new  royalties 
To  feed  afresh  the  Arab  sway  in  Spain. 

My  vagabonds  are  a  seed  more  generous, 

Quick  as  the  serpent,  loving  as  the  hound, 

And  beautiful  as  disinherited  gods. 

They  have  a  promised  land  beyond  the  sea : 

There  I  may  lead  them,  raise  my  standard,  call 
All  wandering  Zincali  to  that  home, 

And  make  a  nation,  —  bring  light,  order,  law, 
Instead  of  chaos.  You,  my  only  heir, 

Are  called  to  reign  for  me  when  I  am  gone. 

Now  choose  your  deed :  to  save  or  to  destroy. 
You,  woman  and  Zincala,  fortunate 
Above  your  fellows,  —  you  who  hold  a  curse 
Or  blessing  in  the  hollow  of  your  hand,  — 

Say  you  will  loo^e  that  hand  from  fellowship, 

Let  go  the  rescuing  rope,  hurl  all  the  tribes, 
Children  and  countless  beings  yet  to  come, 

Down  from  the  upward  path  of  light  and  joy, 
Back  to  the  dark  and  marshy  wilderness 
Where  life  is  naught  but  blind  tenacity 
Of  that  which  is.  Say  you  will  curse  your  race  l 

Fed  alma  (rising  and  stretching  out  her  arms  in 

deprecation). 

No,  no,  —  I  will  not  say  it,  —  I  will  go  ! 

Father,  I  choose !  I  will  not  take  a  heaven 
Haunted  by  shrieks  of  far-off  misery. 

This  deed  and  I  have  ripened  with  the  hours ; 

It  is  a  part  of  me,  —  a  wakened  thought 


36 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


That,  rising  like  a  giant,  masters  me, 

And  grows  into  a  doom.  0  mother  life, 

That  seemed  to  nourish  me  so  tenderly, 

Even  in  the  womb  you  vowed  me  to  the  fire, 

Hung  on  my  soul  the  burden  of  men’s  hopes, 

And  pledged  me  to  redeem  !  —  I  ’ll  pay  the  debt. 
You  gave  me  strength  that  I  should  pour  it  all 
Into  this  anguish.  I  can  never  shrink 
Back  into  bliss,  —  my  heart  has  grown  too  big 
With  things  that  might  be.  Bather,  I  will  go. 

I  will  strip  off  these  gems.  Some  happier  bride 
Shall  wear  them,  since  Fedalma  would  be  dowered 
With  naught  but  curses,  dowered  with  misery 
Of  men,  —  of  women,  who  have  hearts  to  bleed 
As  hers  is  bleeding. 

(She  sinks  on  a  seat ,  and  begins  to  take  off  her 
jewels .) 

Now,  good  gems,  we  part. 
Speak  of  me  always  tenderly  to  Silva. 

(She pauses,  turning  to  Zarca.) 
O  father,  will  the  women  of  our  tribe 
Suffer  as  I  do,  in  the  years  to  come 
When  you  have  made  them  great  in  Africa  ? 
Redeemed  from  ignorant  ills  only  to  feel 
A  conscious  woe  ?  Then,  —  is  it  worth  the  pains  ? 
W ere  it  not  better  when  we  reach  that  shore 
To  raise  a  funeral-pile  and  perish  all  ? 

So  closing  up  a  myriad  avenues 

To  misery  yet  unwrought  ?  My  soul  is  faint,  — 

W ill  these  sharp  pangs  buy  any  certain  good  ? 

Zarca. 

Nay,  never  falter :  no  great  deed  is  done 
By  falterers  who  ask  for  certainty. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


137 


No  good  is  certain,  but  the  steadfast  mind, 

The  undivided  will  to  seek  the  good  : 

JT  is  that  compels  the  elements,  and  wrings 
A  human  music  from  the  indifferent  air. 

The  greatest  gift  the  hero  leaves  his  race 
Is  to  have  been  a  hero.  Say  we  fail !  — 

We  feed  the  high  tradition  of  the  world, 

And  leave  our  spirit  in  Zincalo  breasts. 

Fedalma  ( unclasping  her  jewelled  belt ,  and  throwing 

it  down). 

Yes,  say  that  we  shall  fail !  I  will  not  count 
On  aught  but  being  faithful.  I  will  take 
This  yearning  self  of  mine  and  strangle  it. 

I  will  not  be  half-hearted :  never  yet 
Fedalma  did  aught  with  a  wavering  souk 
Die,  my  young  joy,  —  die,  all  my  hungry  hopes,— 
The  milk  you  cry  for  from  the  breast  of  life 
Is  thick  with  curses.  Oh,  all  fatness  here 
Snatches  its  meat  from  leanness,  —  feeds  on  graves. 
I  will  seek  nothing  but  to  shun  what ’s  base. 

The  saints  were  cowards  who  stood  by  to  see 
Christ  crucified :  they  should  have  flung  themselves 
Upon  the  Roman  spears,  and  died  in  vain,  — 

The  grandest  death,  to  die  in  vain,  —  for  love 
Greater  than  sways  the  forces  of  the  world. 

That  death  shall  be  my  bridegroom.  I  will  wed 
The  curse  of  the  Zincali.  Father,  come! 

Zarca. 

No  curse  has  fallen  on  us  till  we  cease 
To  help  each  other.  You,  if  you  are  false 
To  that  first  fellowship,  lay  on  the  curse. 

But  write  now  to  the  Spaniard  :  briefly  say 
That  I,  your  father,  came ;  that  you  obeyed 


138 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  fate  which  made  you  a  Zincala,  as  his  fate 
Made  him  a  Spanish  duke  and  Christian  knight. 

He  must  not  think  .... 

Fed  alma. 

Yes,  I  will  write,  but  he, — 
Oh,  he  would  know  it,  —  he  would  never  think 
The  chain  that  dragged  me  from  him  could  be  aught 
But  scorching  iron  entering  in  my  soul. 

(She  writes.) 

Silva,  sole  love,  —  he  came,  —  my  father  came . 

I  am  the  daughter  of  the  Gypsy  chief 
Who  means  to  he  the  Savior  of  our  tribe. 

He  calls  on  me  to  live  for  his  great  end. 

To  live?  nay ,  die  for  it.  Fedalma  dies 

In  leaving  Silva :  all  that  lives  henceforth 

Is  the  Zincala.  (She  rises) 

Father,  now  I  go 
To  wed  my  people’s  lot. 

Zarca. 

« 

To  wed  a  crown. 

We  will  make  royal  the  Zincali’s  lot, — 

Give  it  a  country,  homes,  and  monuments 

Held  sacred  through  the  lofty  memories 

That  we  shall  leave  behind  us.  Come,  my  Queen  J 

Fedalma. 

Stay,  my  betrothal  ring !  —  one  kiss, —farewell ! 

0  love,  you  were  my  crown.  Ho  other  crown 
Is  aught  but  thorns  on  my  poor  woman’s  brow. 

(Exeunt.) 


BOOK  II. 


SILVA  was  marching  homeward  while  the  moon 
Still  shed  mild  brightness  like  the  far-off  hope 
Of  those  pale  virgin  lives  that  wait  and  pray. 

The  stars  thin-scattered  made  the  heavens  large. 
Bending  in  slow  procession ;  in  the  east 
Emergent  from  the  dark  waves  of  the  hills, 

Seeming  a  little  sister  of  the  moon, 

Glowed  Venus  all  unquenched.  Silva,  in  haste, 
Exultant  and  yet  anxious,  urged  his  troop 
To  quick  and  quicker  march :  he  had  delight 
In  forward  stretching  shadows,  in  the  gleams 
That  travelled  on  the  armor  of  the  van, 

And  in  the  many-hoofed  sound  :  in  all  that  told 
Of  hurrying  movement  to  overtake  his  thought 
Already  in  Bedmar,  close  to  Fedalma, 

Leading  her  forth  a  wedded  bride,  fast  vowed, 
Defying  Father  Isidor.  His  glance 
Took  in  with  much  content  the  priest  who  rode 
Firm  in  his  saddle,  stalwart  and  broad-backed, 
Crisp-curled,  and  comfortably  secular, 

Bight  in  the  front  of  him.  But  by  degrees 
Stealthily  faint,  disturbing  with  slow  loss 
That  showed  not  yet  full  promise  of  a  gain, 

The  light  was  changing  and  the  watch  intense 
Of  moon  and  stars  seemed  weary,  shivering : 

The  sharp  white  brightness  passed  from  off  the  rock3 
Carrying  the  shadows  :  beauteous  Night  lay  dead 
Under  the  pall  of  twilight,  and  the  love-star 
Sickened  and  shrank.  The  troop  was  winding  now 
Upward  to  where  a  pass  between  the  peaks 


140 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Seemed  like  an  opened  gate,  —  to  Silva  seemed 
An  outer-gate  of  heaven,  for  through  that  pass 
They  entered  his  own  valley,  near  Bedmar. 

Sudden  within  the  pass  a  horseman  rose 
One  instant  dark  upon  the  banner  pale 
Of  rock-cut  sky,  the  next  in  motion  swift 
With  hat  and  plume  high  shaken,  —  ominous. 

Silva  had  dreamed  his  future,  and  the  dream 
Held  not  this  messenger.  A  minute  more, — 

It  was  his  friend  Don  Alvar  whom  he  saw 
Reining  his  horse  up,  face  to  face  with  him, 

Sad  as  the  twilight,  all  his  clothes  ill-girt,  — 

As  if  he  had  been  roused  to  see  one  die, 

And  brought  the  news  to  him  whom  death  had  robbed. 
Silva  believed  he  saw  the  worst,  —  the  town 
Stormed  by  the  infidel,  —  or,  could  it  be 
Fedalma  dragged  ?  — 1  no,  there  was  not  yet  time. 

But  with  a  marble  face,  he  only  said, 

“  What  evil,  Alvar  ?  ” 

“  What  this  paper  speaks.” 

It  was  Fedalma’s  letter  folded  close 

And  mute  as  yet  for  Silva.  But  his  friend 

Keeping  it  still  sharp-pinched  against  his  breast, 

“  It  will  smite  hard,  my  lord  :  a  private  grief. 

I  would  not  have  you  pause  to  read  it  here. 

Let  us  ride  on,  —  we  use  the  moments  best, 

Reaching  the  town  with  speed.  The  smaller  ill 
Is  that  our  Gypsy  prisoners  have  escaped.” 

“  No  more.  Give  me  the  paper,  —  nay,  I  know,  — 

JT  will  make  no  difference.  Bid  them  march  on  faster. 
Silva  pushed  forward,  —  held  the  paper  crushed 
Close  in  his  right.  “  They  have  imprisoned  her,” 

He  said  to  Alvar  in  low,  hard-cut  tones, 

Like  a  dream-speech  of  slumbering  revenge. 

“No, — when  they  came  to  fetch  her  she  was  gone.” 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


141 


Swift  as  the  right  touch  on  a  spring,  that  word 
Made  Silva  read  the  letter.  She  was  gone  ! 

But  not  into  locked  darkness,  —  only  gone 
Into  free  air,  —  where  he  might  find  her  yet. 

The  bitter  loss  had  triumph  in  it,  —  what ! 

They  would  have  seized  her  with  their  holy  claws  ? 
The  Prior’s  sweet  morsel  of  despotic  hate 
Was  snatched  from  off  his  lips.  This  misery 
Had  yet  a  taste  of  joy. 

But  she  was  gone  ! 

The  sun  had  risen,  and  in  the  castle  walls 
The  light  grew  strong  and  stronger.  Silva  walked 
Through  the  long  corridor  where- dimness  yet 
Cherished  a  lingering,  flickering,  dying  hope  : 
Fedalma  still  was  there,  —  he  could  not  see 
The  vacant  place  that  once  her  presence  filled. 

Can  we  believe  that  the  dear  dead  are  gone  ? 

Love  in  sad  weeds  forgets  the  funeral  day, 

Opens  the  chamber  door  and  almost  smiles,  — 

Then  sees  the  sunbeams  pierce  athwart  the  bed 
Where  the  pale  face  is  not.  So  Silva’s  joy. 

Like  the  sweet  habit  of  caressing  hands 
That  seek  the  memory  of  another  hand, 

Still  lived  on  fitfully  in  spite  of  words, 

And,  numbing  thought  with  vague  illusion,  dulled 
The  slow  and  steadfast  beat  of  certainty. 

But  in  the  rooms  inexorable  light 
Streamed  through  the  open  window  where  she  fled, 
Streamed  on  the  belt  and  coronet  thrown  down,  — 
Mute  witnesses,  —  sought  out  the  typic  ring 
That  sparkled  on  the  crimson,  solitary, 

Wounding  him  like  a  word.  0  hateful  light ! 

It  filled  the  chambers  with  her  absence,  glared 
On  all  the  motionless  things  her  hand  had  touched, 
Motionless  all,  —  save  where  old  Inez  lay 


142 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT, 


Sunk  on  the  floor  holding  her  rosary, 

Making  its  shadow  tremble  with  her  fear. 

And  Silva  passed  her  by  because  she  grieved : 

It  was  the  lute,  the  gems,  the  pictured  heads, 

He  longed  to  crush,  because  they  made  no  sign 
But  of  insistence  that  she  was  not  there, 

She  who  had  filled  his  sight  and  hidden  them. 

He  went  forth  on  the  terrace  tow’rd  the  stairs, 

Saw  the  rained  petals  of  the  cistus  flowers 
Crushed  by  large  feet ;  but  on  one  shady  spot 
Far  down  the  steps,  where  dampness  made  a  home, 

He  saw  a  footprint  delicate-slippered,  small, 

So  dear  to  him,  he  searched  for  sister-prints, 

Searched  in  the  rock-hewn  passage  with  a  lamp 
For  other  trace  of  her,  and  found  a  glove ; 
put  not  Fedalma’s.  It  was  J uan’s  glove, 

Tasselled,  perfumed,  embroidered  with  his  name, 

A  gift  of  dames.  Then  Juan,  too,  was  gone  ? 
Full-mouthed  conjecture,  hurrying  through  the  town, 
Had  spread  the  tale  already,  —  it  was  he 
That  helped  the  Gypsies’  flight.  He  talked  and  sang 
Of  nothing  but  the  Gypsies  and  Fedalma. 

He  drew  the  threads  together,  wove  the  plan. 

Had  lingered  out  by  moonlight  and  been  seen 
Strolling,  as  was  his  wont,  within  the  walls, 

Humming  his  ditties.  So  Don  Alvar  told, 

Conveying  outside  rumor.  But  the  Duke 
Keeping  his  haughtiness  as  a  visor  closed 
Would  show  no  agitated  front  in  quest 
Of  small  disclosures.  What  her  writing  bore 
Had  been  enough.  He  knew  that  she  was  gone, 

Knew  why. 

“  The  Duke,”  some  said,  “  will  send  a  force, 
Retake  the  prisoners,  and  bring  back  his  bride.” 

But  others,  winking,  “  Nay,  her  wedding  dress 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


143 


Would  be  the  san-benito.  ’T  is  a  fight 

Between  the  Duke  and  Prior.  Wise  bets  will  choose 

The  churchman :  he ’s  the  iron,  and  the  Duke  ” _ 

“  Is  a  fine  piece  of  pottery/'  said  mine  host, 
Softening  the  epigram  with  a  bland  regret. 

There  was  the  thread  that  in  the  new-made  knot 
Of  obstinate  circumstance  seemed  hardest  drawn, 
Vexed  most  the  sense  of  Silva,  in  these  hours 
Of  fresh  and  angry  pain,  —  there,  in  that  fight 
Against  a  foe  whose  sword  was  magical, 

His  shield  invisible  terrors,  —  against  a  foe 
Who  stood  as  if  upon  the  smoking  mount 
Ordaining  plagues.  All  else,  Fedalma’s  flight, 

The  father’s  claim,  her  Gypsy  birth  disclosed, 

Were  momentary  crosses,  hindrances 
A  Spanish  noble  might  despise.  This  Chief 
Might  still  be  treated  with,  would  not  refuse 
A  proffered  ransom,  which  would  better  serve 
Gypsy  prosperity,  give  him  more  power 
Over  his  tribe,  than  any  fatherhood  : 

Nay,  all  the  father  in  him  must  plead  loud 
For  marriage  of  his  daughter  where  she  loved,  — 

Her  love  being  placed  so  high  and  lustrously. 

The  keen  Zincalo  had  foreseen  a  price 
That  would  be  paid  him  for  his  daughter’s  dower,  — 
Might  soon  give  signs.  Oh,  all  his  purpose  lay 
Face  upward.  Silva  here  felt  strong,  and  smiled. 
What  could  a  Spanish  noble  not  command  ? 

He  only  helped  the  Queen,  because  he  chose,  — 

Could  war  on  Spaniards,  and  could  spare  the  Moor,  — 
Buy  justice,  or  defeat  it,  —  if  he  would  : 

Was  loyal,  not  from  weakness  but  from  strength 
Of  high  resolve  to  use  his  birthright  well. 

For  nobles  too  are  gods,  like  Emperors, 


144 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Accept  perforce  their  own  divinity 
And  wonder  at  the  virtue  of  their  touch. 

Till  obstinate  resistance  shakes  their  creed, 
Shattering  that  self  whose  wholeness  is  not  rounded 
Save  in  the  plastic  souls  of  other  men. 

Don  Silva  had  been  suckled  in  that  creed 
(A  speculative  noble  else,  knowing  Italian), 

Held  it  absurd  as  foolish  argument 
If  any  failed  in  deference,  was  too  proud 
Hot  to  be  courteous  to  so  poor  a  knave 
As  one  who  knew  not  necessary  truths 
Of  birth  and  precedence  ;  but  cross  his  will, 

The  miracle-working  will,  his  rage  leaped  out 
As  by  a  right  divine  to  rage  more  fatal 
Than  a  mere  mortal  man’s.  And  now  that  will 
Had  met  a  stronger  adversary,  —  strong 
As  awful  ghosts  are  whom  we  cannot  touch, 

While  they  grasp  us,  subtly  as  poisoned  air, 

In  deep-laid  fibres  of  inherited  fear 
That  lie  below  all  courage. 

Silva  said, 

“  She  is  not  lost  to  me,  might  still  be  mine 
But  for  the  Inquisition,  —  the  dire  hand 
That  waits  to  clutch  her  with  a  hideous  grasp, 

Not  passionate,  human,  living,  but  a  grasp 
As  in  the  death-throe  when  the  human  soul 
Departs  and  leaves  force  unrelenting,  locked, 

Not  to  be  loosened  save  by  slow  decay 
That  frets  the  universe.  Father  Isidor 
Has  willed  it  so  :  his  phial  dropped  the  oil 
To  catch  the  air-borne  motes  of  idle  slander  ; 

He  fed  the  fascinated  gaze  that  clung 

Round  all  her  movements,  frank  as  growths  of  spring, 

With  the  new  hateful  interest  of  suspicion. 

What  barrier  is  this  Gypsy  ?  a  mere  gate 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


145 


I  ’ll  find  the  key  for.  The  one  barrier, 

The  tightening  cord  that  winds  about  my  limbs, 

Is  this  kind  uncle,  this  imperious  saint, 

He  who  will  save  me,  guard  me  from  myself. 

And  he  can  work  his  will :  I  have  no  help 

Save  reptile  secrecy,  and  no  revenge 

Save  that  I  will  do  what  he  schemes  to  hinder. 

Ay,  secrecy,  and  disobedience,  —  these 
No  tyranny  can  master.  Disobey  ! 

You  may  divide  the  universe  with  God, 

Keeping  your  will  unbent,  and  hold  a  world 
Where  he  is  not  supreme.  The  Prior  shall  know  it ! 

His  will  shall  breed  resistance  :  he  shall  do 
The  thing  he  would  not,  further  what  he  hates 
By  hardening  my  resolve.” 

But  ’neath  this  inward  speech,  — 
Predominant,  hectoring,  the  more  passionate  voice 
Of  many-blended  consciousness,  —  there  breathed 
Murmurs  of  doubt,  the  weakness  of  a  self 
That  is  not  one ;  denies  and  yet  believes  ; 

Protests  with  passion,  “This  is  natural,”  — 

Yet  owns  the  other  still  were  truer,  better, 

Could  nature  follow  it.  A  self  disturbed 
By  budding  growths  of  reason  premature 
That  breed  disease.  Spite  of  defiant  rage 
Silva  half  shrank  before  the  steadfast  man 
Whose  life  was  one  compacted  whole,  a  state 
Where  the  rule  changed  not,  and  the  law  was  strong. 
Then  straightway  he  resented  that  forced  tribute, 
Bousing  rebellion  with  intenser  will. 

But  soon  this  inward  strife  the  slow-paced  hours 
Slackened  ;  and  the  soul  sank  with  hunger-pangs, 
Hunger  of  love.  Debate  was  swept  right  down 
By  certainty  of  loss  intolerable. 

10 


146 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


A  little  loss  !  only  a  dark-tressed  maid 

Who  had  no  heritage  save  her  beauteous  being  l 

But  in  the  candor  of  her  virgin  eyes 

Saying,  I  love ;  and  in  the  mystic  charm 

Of  her  dear  presence,  Silva  found  a  heaven 

Where  faith  and  hope  were  drowned  as  stars  in  day. 

Fedalma  there,  each  momentary  Now 

Seemed  a  whole  blest  existence,  a  full  cup 

That,  flowing  over,  asked  no  pouring  hand 

From  past  to  future.  All  the  world  was  hers. 

Splendor  was  but  the  herald  trumpet  note 

Of  her  imperial  coming  :  penury 

Vanished  before  her  as  before  a  gem 

The  pledge  of  treasuries.  Fedalma  there, 

He  thought  all  loveliness  was  lovelier, 

She  crowning  it :  all  goodness  credible, 

Because  of  the  great  trust  her  goodness  bred. 

For  the  strong  current  of  that  passionate  love 
Which  urged  his  life  towards  hers,  like  urgent  floods 
That  hurry  through  the  various-mingled  earth, 
Carried  within  its  stream  all  qualities 
Of  what  it  penetrated,  and  made  love 
Only  another  name,  as  Silva  was, 

For  the  whole  man  that  breathed  within  his  frame. 
And  she  was  gone.  Well,  goddesses  will  go ; 

But  for  a  noble  there  were  mortals  left 
Shaped  just  like  goddesses,  —  0  hateful  sweet ! 

O  impudent  pleasure  that  should  dare  to  front 
With  vulgar  visage  memories  divine  ! 

The  noble’s  birthright  of  miraculous  will 
Turning  I  would  to  must  be ,  spurning  all 
Offered  as  substitute  for  what  it  chose, 

Tightened  and  fixed  in  strain  irrevocable 
The  passionate  selection  of  that  love 
Which  came  not  first  but  as  all-conquering  last. 
Great  Love  has  many  attributes,  and  shrines 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


147 


For  varied  worshippers,  but  Ins  force  divine 
Shows  most  its  many-named  fulness  in  the  man 
Whose  nature  multitudinously  mixed, 

Each  ardent  impulse  grappling  with  a  thought 
Resists  all  easy  gladness,  all  content 
Save  mystic  rapture,  where  the  questioning  soul 
Flooded  with  consciousness  of  good  that  is 
Finds  life  one  bounteous  answer.  So  it  was 
In  Silva's  nature,  Love  had  mastery  there, 

Not  as  a  holiday  ruler,  but  as  one 
Who  quells  a  tumult  in  a  day  of  dread, 

A  welcomed  despot. 

Oh,  all  comforters, 

All  soothing  things  that  bring  mild  ecstasy, 

Came  with  her  coming,  in  her  presence  lived. 
Spring  afternoons,  when  delicate  shadows  fall 
Pencilled  upon  the  grass ;  high  summer  morns 
When  white  light  rains  upon  the  quiet  sea 

And  corn-fields  flush  with  ripeness  ;  odors  soft, _ 

Dumb  vagrant  bliss  that  seems  to  seek  a  home 
And  find  it  deep  within  'mid  stirrings  vague 
Of  far-off  moments  when  our  life  was  fresh ; 

All  sweetly-tempered  music,  gentle  change 
Of  sound,  form,  color,  as  on  wide  lagoons 
At  sunset  when  from  black  far-floating  prows 
Comes  a  clear  wafted  song ;  all  exquisite  joy 
Of  a  subdued  desire,  like  some  strong  stream 
Made  placid  in  the  fulness  of  a  lake,  — 

All  came  with  her  sweet  presence,  for  she  brought 
The  love  supreme  which  gathers  to  its  realm 
All  powers  of  loving.  Subtle  nature’s  hand 
Waked  with  a  touch  the  intricate  harmonies 
In  her  own  manifold  work.  Fedalma  there, 
Fastidiousness  became  the  prelude  fine 
For  full  contentment,  and  young  melancholy, 

Lost  for  its  origin,  seemed  but  the  pain 


148 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Of  waiting  for  that  perfect  happiness  — 

The  happiness  was  gone  ! 

He  sat  alone, 

Hating  companionship  that  was  not  hers ; 

Felt  bruised  with  hopeless  longing ;  drank,  as  wine, 
Illusions  of  what  had  been,  would  have  been ; 
Weary  with  anger  and  a  strained  resolve, 

Sought  passive  happiness  in  a  waking  dream. 

It  has  been  so  with  rulers,  emperors, 

Nay,  sages  who  held  secrets  of  great  Time, 

Sharing  his  hoary  and  beneficent  life,  — 

Men  who  sat  throned  among  the  multitudes,  — 
They  have  sore  sickened  at  the  loss  of  one. 

Silva  sat  lonely  in  her  chamber,  leaned 
Where  she  had  leaned,  to  feel  the  evening  breath 
Shed  from  the  orange-trees ;  when  suddenly 
His  grief  was  echoed  in  a  sad  young  voice 
Far  and  yet  near,  brought  by  aerial  wings. 

The  world  is  great :  the  birds  all  fly  from  me , 
The  stars  are  golden  fruit  upon  a  tree 
All  out  of  reach :  my  little  sister  went , 

And  I  am  lonely. 

The  world  is  great :  I  tried  to  mount  the  hill 
Above  the  pines ,  where  the  light  lies  so  still , 

But  it  rose  higher :  little  Lisa  went , 

And  I  am  lonely. 

The  world  is  great :  the  wind  comes  rushing  by, 
I  wonder  where  it  comes  from  ;  sea  birds  cry 
And  hurt  my  heart :  my  little  sister  went , 

And  I  am  lonely. 

The  world  is  great :  the  people  laugh  and  talk, 
And  make  loud  holiday :  how  fast  they  walk  ! 
Vm  lame ,  they  push  me :  little  Lisa  went, 

And  I  am  lonely. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


149 


T  was  Pablo,  like  the  wounded  spirit  of  song 
Pouring  melodious  pain  to  cheat  the  hour 
For  idle  soldiers  in  the  castle  court. 

Dreamily  Silva  heard  and  hardly  felt 
The  song  was  outward,  rather  felt  it  part 
Of  his  own  aching,  like  the  lingering  day, 

Or  slow  and  mournful  cadence  of  the  bell. 

P>ut  when  the  voice  had  ceased,  he  longed  for  it, 

And  fretted  at  the  pause,  as  memory  frets 

When  words  that  made  its  body  fall  away 

And  leave  it  yearning  dumbly.  Silva  then 

Bethought  him  whence  the  voice  came,  framed  perforce 

Some  outward  image  of  a  life  not  his 

That  made  a  sorrowful  centre  to  the  world,  — 

A  boy  lame,  melancholy-eyed,  who  bore 
A  viol,  —  yes,  that  very  child  he  saw 
This  morning  eating  roots  by  the  gateway,  *  saw 
As  one  fresh-ruined  sees  and  spells  a  name 
And  knows  not  what  he  does,  yet  finds  it  writ 
Full  in  the  inner  record.  Plark,  again  ! 

The  voice  and  viol.  Silva  called  his  thought 
To  guide  his  ear  and  track  the  travelling  sound. 

O  bird  that  used  to  press 
Thy  head  against  my  cheek 
With  touch  that  seemed  to  speak 
And  ask  a  tender  u  yes”  — 

Ay  de  mi,  my  bird  / 

O  tender  downy  breast 
And  warmly  beating  heart, 

That  beating  seemed  a  part 
Of  me  who  gave  it  rest,  — 

Ay  de  mi,  my  bird! 

The  western  court !  The  singer  might  be  seen 
From  the  upper  gallery  :  quick  the  Duke  was  there 


150 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Looking  upon  the  court  as  on  a  stage. 

Men  eased  of  armor,  stretched  upon  the  ground, 
Gambling  by  snatches  ;  shepherds  from  the  hills 
Who  brought  their  bleating  friends  for  slaughter ;  grooms 
Shouldering  loose  harness ;  leather-aproned  smiths, 
Traders  with  wares,  green-suited  serving-men, 

Made  a  round  audience  ;  and  in  their  midst 
Stood  little  Pablo,  pouring  forth  his  song, 

Just  as  the  Duke  had  pictured.  But  the  song 
Was  strangely  companied  by  Roldan’s  play 
With  the  swift-gleaming  balls,  and  now  was  crushed 
By  peals  of  laughter  at  grave  Annibal, 

Who  carrying  stick  and  purse  overturned  the  pence, 
Making  mistake  by  rule.  Silva  had  thought 
To  melt  hard  bitter  grief  by  fellowship 
With  the  world-sorrow  trembling  in  his  ear 
In  Pablo’s  voice  ;  had  meant  to  give  command 
For  the  boy’s  presence;  but  this  company, 

This  mountebank  and  monkey,  must  be  —  stay  ! 

Not  be  excepted  —  must  be  ordered  too 
Into  his  private  presence  ;  they  had  brought 
Suggestion  of  a  ready  shapen  tool 
To  cut  a  path  between  his  helpless  wish 
And  what  it  imaged.  A  ready  shapen  tool ! 

A  spy,  an  envoy  whom  he  might  despatch 

In  unsuspected  secrecy,  to  find 

The  Gypsies’  refuge  so  that  none  beside 

Might  learn  it.  And  this  juggler  could  be  bribed, 

Would  have  no  fear  of  Moors,  —  for  who  would  kill 

Dancers  and  monkeys  ?  —  could  pretend  a  journey 

Back  to  his  home,  leaving  his  boy  the  while 

To  please  the  Duke  with  song.  Without  such  chance,— 

An  envoy  cheap  and  secret  as  a  mole 

Who  could  go  scathless,  come  back  foi  his  pay 

And  vanish  straight,  tied  by  no  neighborhood,  — 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


151 


Without  such  chance  as  this  poor  juggler  brought, 
Finding  Fedalma  was  betraying  her. 

Short  interval  betwixt  the  thought  and  deed. 

Roldan  was  called  to  private  audience 

With  Annibal  and  Pablo.  All  the  world 

(By  which  I  mean  the  score  or  two  who  heard) 

Shrugged  high  their  shoulders,  and  supposed  the  Duke 

Would  fain  beguile  the  evening  and  replace 

His  lacking  happiness,  as  was  the  right 

Of  nobles,  who  could  pay  for  any  cure, 

And  wore  naught  broken,  save  a  broken  limb. 

In  truth,  at  first,  the  Duke  bade  Pablo  sing, 

But,  while  he  sang,  called  Roldan  wide  apart, 

And  told  him  of  a  mission  secret,  brief,  — 

A  quest  which  well  performed  might  earn  much  gold, 
But,  if  betrayed,  another  sort  of  wages. 

Roldan  was  ready ;  “  wished  above  all  for  gold 
And  never  wished  to  speak ;  had  worked  enough 
At  wagging  his  old  tongue  and  chiming  jokes ; 

Thought  it  was  others’  turn  to  play  the  fool. 

Give  him  but  pence  enough,  no  rabbit,  sirs, 

Would  eat  and  stare  and  be  more  dumb  than  he. 

Give  him  his  orders.” 

They  were  given  straight  j 
Gold  for  the  journey,  and  to  buy  a  mule 
Outside  the  gates  through  which  he  was  to  pass 
Afoot  and  carelessly.  The  boy  would  stay 
Within  the  castle,  at  the  Duke’s  command, 

And  must  have  naught  but  ignorance  to  betray 
For  threats  or  coaxing.  Once  the  quest  performed, 
The  news  delivered  with  some  pledge  of  truth 
Safe  to  the  Duke,  the  juggler  should  go  forth, 

A  fortune  in  his  girdle,  take  his  boy 
And  settle  firm  as  any  planted  tree 


152 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


In  fair  Valencia,  never  more  to  roam. 

“  Good  !  good  !  most  worthy  of  a  great  hidalgo  i 
And  Roldan  was  the  man  !  But  Annibal,  — 

A  monkey  like  no  other,  though  morose 
In  private  character,  yet  full  of  tricks,  — 

’T  were  hard  to  carry  him,  yet  harder  still 
To  leave  the  boy  and  him  in  company 
And  free  to  slip  away.  The  boy  was  wild 
And  shy  as  mountain  kid ;  once  hid  himself 
And  tried  to  run  away ;  and  Annibal, 

Who  always  took  the  lad’s  side  (he  was  small? 

And  they  were  nearer  of  a  size,  and,  sirs, 

Your  monkey  has  a  spite  against  us  men 
For  being  bigger),  —  Annibal  went  too. 

Would  hardly  know  himself,  were  he  to  lose 
Both  boy  and  monkey,  —  and ’t  was  property, 

The  trouble  he  had  put  in  Annibal. 

He  didn’t  choose  another  man  should  beat 

His  boy  and  monkey.  If  they  ran  away 

Some  man  would  snap  them  up,  and  square  himself 

And  say  they  were  his  goods,  —  he ’d  taught  them.  —  no 

He  Roldan  had  no  mind  another  man 

Should  fatten  by  his  monkey,  and  the  boy 

Should  not  be  kicked  by  any  pair  of  sticks 

Calling  himself  a  juggler.”  .... 

But  the  Duke, 

Tired  of  that  hammering,  signed  that  it  should  ceas^j 
Bade  Roldan  quit  all  fears,  —  the  boy  and  ape 
Should  be  safe  lodged  in  Abderahman’s  tower, 

In  keeping  of  the  great  physician  there, 

The  Duke’s  most  special  confidant  and  friend, 

One  skilled  in  taming  brutes,  and  always  kind. 

The  Duke  himself  this  eve  would  see  them  lodged. 
Roldan  must  go,  —  spend  no  more  words,  —  but  go. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


1 58 


A  room  high  up  in  Abderahman’s  tower, 

A  window  open  to  the  still  warm  eve, 

And  the  bright  disk  of  royal  Jupiter. 

Lamps  burning  low  make  little  atmospheres 
Of  light  amid  the  dimness  ;  here  and  there 
Show  books  and  phials,  stones  and  instruments. 

In  carved  dark-oaken  chair,  unpillowed,  sleeps 
Eight  in  the  rays  of  J upiter  a  small  man, 

In  skull-cap  bordered  close  with  crisp  gray  curls, 

And  loose  black  gown  showing  a  neck  and  breast 
Protected  by  a  dim-green  amulet ; 

Pale  faced,  with  finest  nostril  wont  to  breathe 
Ethereal  passion  in  a  world  of  thought ; 

Eyebrows  jet-black  and  firm,  yet  delicate  ; 

Beard  scant  and  grizzled ;  mouth  shut  firm,  with  curves 
So  subtly  turned  to  meanings  exquisite, 

You  seem  to  read  them  as  you  read  a  word 
Full- vo welled,  long-descended,  pregnant,  —  rich 
With  legacies  from  long,  laborious  lives. 

Close  by  him,  like  a  genius  of  sleep, 

Purrs  the  gray  cat,  bridling,  with  snowy  breast. 

A  loud  knock.  “  Forward !  ”  in  clear  vocal  ring. 

Enter  the  Duke,  Pablo,  and  Annibal. 

Exit  the  cat,  retreating  toward  the  dark. 

Don  Silva. 

You  slept,  Sephardo.  I  am  come  too  soon. 

Sephardo. 

Nay,  my  lord,  it  was  I  who  slept  too  long. 

I  go  to  court  among  the  stars  to-night, 

So  bathed  my  soul  beforehand  in  deep  sleep. 

But  who  are  these  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Small  guests,  for  whom  I  ask 
Your  hospitality.  Their  owner  comes 


154 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Some  short  time  hence  to  claim  them.  I  am  pledged 
To  keep  them  safely  ;  so  I  bring  them  you, 

Trusting  your  friendship  for  small  animals. 

Sephardo. 

Yea,  am  not  I  too  a  small  animal  ? 

Don  Silva. 

I  shall  be  much  beholden  to  your  love 
If  you  will  be  their  guardian.  I  can  trust 
No  other  man  so  well  as  you.  The  boy 
Will  please  you  with  his  singing,  touches  too 
The  viol  wondrously. 

Sephardo. 

They  are  welcome  both. 

Their  names  are  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Pablo,  this — this  Annibal, 
And  yet,  I  hope,  lu,  varrior. 

Sephardo. 

We  ’ll  make  peace. 

Come,  Pablo,  let  us  loosen  our  friend’s  chain. 

Deign  you,  my  lord,  to  sit.  Here,  Pablo,  thou  — - 
Close  to  my  chair.  Now  Annibal  shall  choose. 

[The  cautious  monkey,  in  a  Moorish  dress, 

A  tunic  white,  turban  and  scymitar, 

Wears  these  stage  garments,  nay,  his  very  flesh 

With  silent  protest ;  keeps  a  neutral  air 

As  aiming  at  a  metaphysic  state 

Twixt  u  is  ”  and  “  is  not  ”  ;  lets  his  chain  be  loosed 

By  sage  Sephardo’s  hands,  sits  still  at  first, 

Then  trembles  out  of  his  neutrality. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


155 


Looks  up  and  leaps  into  Sephardo’s  lap, 

And  chatters  forth  his  agitated  soul, 

Turning  to  peep  at  Pablo  on  the  floor.] 

Sephardo. 

See,  he  declares  we  are  at  amity ! 

Don  Silva. 

No  brother  sage  had  read  your  nature  faster. 

Sephardo. 

Why,  so  he  is  a  brother  sage.  Man  thinks 
Brutes  have  no  wisdom,  since  they  know  not  his  l 
Can  we  divine  their  world  ?  —  the  hidden  life 
That  mirrors  us  as  hideous  shapeless  power, 

Cruel  supremacy  of  sharp-edged  death, 

Or  fate  that  leaves  a  bleeding  mother  robbed  ? 

Oh,  they  have  long  tradition  and  swift  speech. 
Can  tell  with  touches  and  sharp  darting  cries 
Whole  histories  of  timid  races  taught 
To  breathe  in  terror  by  red-handed  man. 

Don  Silva. 

Ah,  you  denounce  my  sport  with  hawk  and  hound 
I  would  not  have  the  angel  Gabriel 
As  hard  as  you  in  noting  down  my  sins. 

Sephardo. 

Nay,  they  are  virtues  for  you  warriors,  — 
Hawking  and  hunting !  You  are  merciful 
When  you  leave  killing  men  to  kill  the  brutes. 
But,  for  the  point  of  wisdom,  I  would  choose 
To  know  the  mind  that  stirs  between  the  wings 
Of  bees  and  building  wasps,  or  fills  the  woods 
With  myriad  murmurs  of  responsive  sens© 


I5£  OEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

And  true-aimed  impulse,  rather  than  to  know 
The  thoughts  of  warriors. 

Don  Silva. 

Yet  they  are  warriors  too,  — 
Your  animals.  Your  judgment  limps,  Sephardo  : 

Death  is  the  king  of  this  world ;  ’t  is  his  park 
Where  he  breeds  life  to  feed  him.  Cries  of  pain 
Are  music  for  his  banquet ;  and  the  masque,  — ■ 

The  last  grand  masque  for  his  diversion,  is 
The  Holy  Inquisition. 

Sephardo. 

Ay,  anon 

I  may  chime  in  with  you.  But  not  the  less 
My  judgment  has  firm  feet.  Though  death  were  king, 
And  cruelty  his  right-hand  minister, 

Pity  insurgent  in  some  human  breasts 
Makes  spiritual  empire,  reigns  supreme 
As  persecuted  faith  in  faithful  hearts. 

Your  small  physician,  weighing  ninety  pounds, 

A  petty  morsel  for  a  healthy  shark, 

Will  worship  mercy  throned  within  his  soul 
Though  all  the  luminous  angels  of  the  stars 
Burst  into  cruel  chorus  on  his  ear, 

Singing,  “  We  know  no  mercy.”  He  would  cry 
“  I  know  it  ”  still,  and  soothe  the  frightened  bird 
And  feed  the  child  a-hungered,  walk  abreast 
Of  persecuted  men,  and  keep  most  hate 
For  rational  torturers.  There  I  stand  firm. 

But  you  are  bitter,  and  my  speech  rolls  on 
Out  of  your  note. 

Don  Silva. 

No,  no,  I  follow  you. 

I  too  have  that  within  which  I  will  worship 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


In  spite  of  —  yes,  Sephardo,  I  am  bitter. 

I  need  your  counsel,  foresight,  all  your  aid. 

Lay  these  small  guests  to  bed,  then  we  will  talk. 

Sephardo. 

See,  they  are  sleeping  now.  The  boy  has  made 
My  leg  his  pillow.  For  my  brother  sage, 

He  ’ll  never  heed  us  ;  he  knit  long  ago 
A  sound  ape-system,  wherein  men  are  brutes 
Emitting  doubtful  noises.  Pray,  my  lord, 
Unlade  what  burdens  you :  my  ear  and  hand 
Are  servants  of  a  heart  much  bound  to  you. 

Don  Silva. 

Yes,  yours  is  love  that  roots  in  gifts  bestowed 
By  you  on  others,  and  will  thrive  the  more 
The  more  it  gives.  I  have  a  double  want : 

First  a  confessor,  —  not  a  Catholic  ; 

A  heart  without  a  livery,  —  naked  manhood. 

Sephardo. 

My  lord,  I  will  be  frank,  there  ?s  no  such  thing 
As  naked  manhood.  If  the  stars  look  down 
On  any  mortal  of  our  shape,  whose  strength 
Is  to  judge  all  things  without  preference, 

He  is  a  monster,  not  a  faithful  man. 

While  my  heart  beats,  it  shall  wear  livery,  — 

My  people’s  livery,  whose  yellow  badge 
Marks  them  for  Christian  scorn.  I  will  not  say 
Man  is  first  man  to  me,  then  Jew  or  Gentile  : 
That  suits  the  rich  marranos  ;  but  to  me 
My  father  is  first  father  and  then  man. 

So  much  for  frankness’  sake.  But  let  that  pass, 
’T  is  true  at  least,  I  am  no  Catholic, 

But  Salomo  Sephardo,  a  born  Jew, 

Willing  to  serve  Don  Silva. 


158 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Don  Silva. 

Oft  you  sing 

Another  strain,  and  melt  distinctions  down 
As  no  more  real  than  the  wall  of  dark 
Seen  by  small  fishes’  eyes,  that  pierce  a  span 
In  the  wide  ocean.  Now  you  league  yourself 
To  hem  me,  hold  me  prisoner  in  bonds 
Made,  say  you,  —  how  ?  —  by  God  or  Demiurge, 

By  spirit  or  flesh,  —  I  care  not !  Love  was  made 
Stronger  than  bonds,  and  where  they  press  must  break 
them. 

I  came  to  you  that  I  might  breathe  at  large, 

And  now  you  stifle  me  with  talk  of  birth, 

Of  race  and  livery.  Yet  you  knew  Fedalma. 

She  was  your  friend,  Sephardo.  And  you  know 
She  is  gone  from  me,  —  know  the  hounds  are  loosed 
To  dog  me  if  I  seek  her. 

Sephardo. 

Yes,  I  know. 

Forgive  me  that  I  used  untimely  speech, 

Pressing  a  bruise.  I  loved  her  well,  my  lord : 

A  woman  mixed  of  such  fine  elements 
That  were  all  virtue  and  religion  dead 
She ’d  make  them  newly,  being  what  she  was. 

Don  Silva. 

Was  ?  say  not  was ,  Sephardo  !  She  still  lives,  — 

Is,  and  is  mine ;  and  I  will  not  renounce 
What  heaven,  nay,  what  she  gave  me.  I  will  sin, 

If  sin  I  must,  to  win  my  life  again. 

The  fault  lie  with  those  powers  who  have  embroiled 
The  world  in  hopeless  conflict,  where  all  truth 
Fights  manacled  with  falsehood,  and  all  good 
Makes  but  one  palpitating  life  with  evil. 

(Don  Silva  pauses .  Sephardo  is  silent ) 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


159 


Sephardo,  speak  !  am  I  not  justified  ? 

You  taught  my  mind  to  use  the  wing  that  soars 
Above  the  petty  fences  of  the  herd  : 

Now,  when  I  need  your  doctrine,  you  are  dumb. 

Sephardo. 

Patience  !  Hidalgos  want  interpreters 
Of  untold  dreams  and  riddles  ;  they  insist 
On  dateless  horoscopes,  on  formulas 
To  raise  a  possible  spirit,  nowhere  named. 

Science  must  be  their  wishing  cap ;  the  stars 
Speak  plainer  for  high  largesse.  No,  my  lord  ! 

I  cannot  counsel  you  to  unknown  deeds. 

Thus  much  I  can  divine :  you  wish  to  find 
Her  whom  you  love,  —  to  make  a  secret  search. 

Don  Silva. 

That  is  begun  already :  a  messenger 
Unknown  to  all  has  been  despatched  this  night. 
But  forecast  must  be  used,  a  plan  devised, 

Ready  for  service  when  my  scout  returns, 

Bringing  the  invisible  thread  to  guide  my  steps 
Toward  that  lost  self  my  life  is  aching  with. 
Sephardo,  I  will  go  :  and  I  must  go 
Unseen  by  all  save  you  ;  though,  at  our  need, 

We  may  trust  Alvar. 

Sephardo. 

A  grave  task,  my  lord. 

Have  you  a  shapen  purpose,  or  mere  will 
That  sees  the  end  alone  and  not  the  means  ? 
Resolve  will  melt  no  rocks. 

Don  Silva. 

But  it  can  scale  them. 
This  fortress  has  two  private  issues :  one, 


160 


JEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Which  served  the  Gypsies’  flight,  to  me  is  closed : 

Our  bands  must  watch  the  outlet,  now  betraved 
To  cunning  enemies.  Remains  one  other, 

Known  to  no  man  save  me :  a  secret  left 
As  heirloom  in  our  house  :  a  secret  safe 
Even  from  him,  — from  Father  Isidor. 

’T  is  he  who  forces  me  to  use  it,  —  he  : 

All ’s  virtue  that  cheats  bloodhounds.  Hear,  Sephardo. 
Given,  my  scout  returns  and  brings  me  news 
I  can  straight  act  on,  I  shall  want  your  aid. 

The  issue  lies  below  this  tower,  your  fastness, 

Where,  by  my  charter,  you  rule  absolute. 

I  shall  feign  illness  ;  you  with  mystic  air 
Must  speak  of  treatment  asking  vigilance 
(Nay  I  am  ill,  —  my  life  has  half  ebbed  out). 

I  shall  be  whimsical,  devolve  command 
On  Don  Diego,  speak  of  poisoning, 

Insist  on  being  lodged  within  this  tower, 

And  rid  myself  of  tendance  save  from  you 
And  perhaps  from  Alvar.  So  I  shall  escape 
Unseen  by  spies,  shall  win  the  days  I  need 
To  ransom  her  and  have  her  safe  enshrined. 

No  matter,  were  my  flight  disclosed  at  last : 

I  shall  come  back  as  from  a  duel  fought 
Which  no  man  can  undo.  Now  you  know  all. 

Say,  can  I  count  on  you  ? 

Sephardo. 

For  faithfulness 

In  aught  that  I  may  promise  —  yes,  my  lord. 

But,  —  for  a  pledge  of  faithfulness,  —  this  warning. 

I  will  betray  naught  for  your  personal  harm : 

I  love  you.  But  note  this,  — I  am  a  Jew ; 

And  while  the  Christian  persecutes  my  race, 

I  ’ll  turn  at  need  even  the  Christian’s  trust 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


161 


Into  a  weapon  and  a  shield  for  Jews. 

Shall  Cruelty  crowned  —  wielding  the  savage  force 
Of  multitudes,  and  calling  savageness  God 
Who  gives  it  victory  —  upbraid  deceit 
And  ask  for  faithfulness  ?  I  love  you  well. 

You  are  my  friend.  But  yet  you  are  a  Christian, 

Whose  birth  has  bound  you  to  the  Catholic  kings. 

There  may  come  moments  when  to  share  my  joy 
Would  make  you  traitor,  when  to  share  your  grief 
Would  make  me  other  than  a  J  3W  .  .  .  . 

Don  Silt  a. 

What  need 

To  urge  that  now,  Sephardo  ?  I  am  one 
Of  many  Spanish  nobles  who  detest 
The  roaring  bigotry  of  the  herd,  would  fain 
Dash  from  the  lips  of  king  and  queen  the  cup 
Filled  with  besotting  venom,  half  infused 
By  avarice  and  half  by  priests.  And  now,  — 

Now  when  the  cruelty  you  flout  me  with 
Pierces  me  too  in  the  apple  of  my  eye, 

Now  when  my  kinship  scorches  me  like  hate 

Flashed  from  a  mother’s  eye,  you  choose  this  time 

To  talk  of  birth  as  of  inherited  rage 

Deep-down,  volcanic,  fatal,  bursting  forth 

From  under  hard-taught  reason  ?  Wondrous  friendship ! 

My  uncle  Isidor’s  echo,  mocking  me, 

From  the  opposing  quarter  of  the  heavens, 

With  iteration  of  the  thing  I  know, 

That  I ’m  a  Christian  knight  and  Spanish  noble  1 
The  consequence  ?  Why,  that  I  know.  It  lies 
In  my  own  hands  and  not  on  raven  tongues. 

The  knight  and  noble  shall  not  wear  the  chain 
Of  false-linked  thoughts  in  brains  of  other  men. 

What  question  was  there  ’twixt  us  two,  of  aught 

11 


162 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


That  makes  division  ?  When  I  come  to  you 
1  come  for  other  doctrine  than  the  Prior’s. 

Sephardo. 

My  lord,  you  are  o’erwrought  by  pain.  My  words, 
That  carried  innocent  meaning,  do  but  float 
Like  little  emptied  cups  upon  the  flood 
Your  mind  brings  with  it.  I  but  answered  you 
With  regular  proviso,  such  as  stands 
In  testaments  and  charters,  to  forefend 
A  possible  case  which  none  deem  likelihood ; 

Just  turned  my  sleeve,  and  pointed  to  the  brand 
Of  brotherhood  that  limits  every  pledge. 

Superfluous  nicety,  —  the  student’s  trick, 

Who  will  not  drink  until  he  can  define 
What  water  is  and  is  not.  But  enough. 

My  will  to  serve  you  now  knows  no  division 
Save  the  alternate  beat  of  love  and  fear. 

There ’s  danger  in  this  quest,  —  name,  honor,  life,  — * 
My  lord,  the  stake  is  great,  and  are  you  sure  .... 

Don  Silva. 

Ho,  I  am  sure  of  naught  but  this,  Sephardo, 

That  I  will  go.  Prudence  is  but  conceit 
Hoodwinked  by  ignorance.  There ’s  naught  exists 
That  is  not  dangerous  and  holds  not  death 
For  souls  or  bodies.  Prudence  turns  its  helm 
To  flee  the  storm  and  lands  ’mid  pestilence. 

Wisdom  must  end  by  throwing  dice  with  folly 
But  for  dire  passion  which  alone  makes  choice. 

And  I  have  chosen  as  the  lion  robbed 
Chooses  to  turn  upon  the  ravislier. 

If  love  were  slack,  the  Prior’s  imperious  will 
Would  move  it  to  outmatch  him.  But,  Sephardo, 
Were  all  else  mute,  all  passive  as  sea-calms, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


163 


My  soul  is  one  great  hunger,  —  I  must  see  her. 

Now  you  are  smiling.  Oh,  you  merciful  men 
Pick  up  coarse  griefs  and  fling  them  in  the  face 
Of  us  whom  life  with  long  descent  has  trained 
To  subtler  pains,  mocking  your  ready  balms. 

You  smile  at  my  soul’s  hunger. 

Sephardo. 

Science  smiles 

And  sways  our  lips  in  spite  of  us,  my  lord, 

When  thought  weds  fact,  —  when  maiden  prophecy 
Waiting,  believing,  sees  the  bridal  torch. 

I  use  not  vulgar  measures  for  your  grief, 

My  pity  keeps  no  cruel  feasts ;  but  thought 
Has  joys  apart,  even  in  blackest  woe, 

And  seizing  some  fine  thread  of  verity 
Knows  momentary  godhead. 

Don  Silva. 

And  your  thought  ? 
Sephardo. 

Seized  on  the  close  agreement  of  your  words 
With  what  is  written  in  your  horoscope. 

■V  . 

Don  Silva. 

Reach  it  me  now. 

Sephardo. 

By  your  leave,  Annibal. 

(He  places  Annibal  on  Pablo’s  lap  and  rises. 
The  boy  moves  without  waking ,  and  his  head 
falls  on  the  opposite  side.  Sephardo  fetches 
a  cushion  and  lays  Pablo’s  head  gentlp  down 
upon  it,  then  goes  to  reach  trie  pare nment  front 
a  cabinet.  Annibal,  having  waked  up  in 
alarm,  shuts  his  eyes  quickly  again  and  pr& 
tends  to  sleep.) 


164 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Don  Silva. 

I  wish,  by  new  appliance  of  your  skill, 

Reading  afresh  the  records  of  the  sky, 

You  could  detect  more  special  augury. 

Such  chance  oft  happens,  for  all  characters 
Must  shrink  or  widen,  as  our  wine-skins  do, 

For  more  or  less  that  we  can  pour  in  them ; 

And  added  years  give  ever  a  new  key 
To  fixed  prediction. 

Sephaudo  {returning  with  the  parchment  and  reseat ■ 

ing  himself ). 

True  5  our  growing  thought 
Makes  growing  revelation.  But  demand  not 
Specific  augury,  as  of  sure  success 
In  meditated  projects,  or  of  ends 
To  be  foreknown  by  peeping  in  God’s  scroll. 

I  Say  —  nay,  Ptolemy  said  it,  but  wise  books 
For  half  the  truths  they  hold  are  honored  tombs  — 
Prediction  is  contingent,  of  effects 
Where  causes  and  concomitants  are  mixed 
To  seeming  wealth  of  possibilities 
Beyond  our  reckoning.  Who  will  pretend 
To  tell  the  adventures  of  each  single  fish 
Within  the  Syrian  Sea  ?  Show  me  a  fish, 

I  ’ll  weigh  him,  tell  his  kind,  what  he  devoured, 
What  would  have  devoured  him ,  —  but  for  one  Bias 
Who  netted  him  instead ;  nay,  could  I  tell , 

That  had  Bias  missed  him,  he  would  not  have  died 
Of  poisonous  mud,  and  so  made  carrion, 

Swept  off  at  last  by  some  sea-scavenger  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Ay,  now  you  talk  of  fishes,  you  get  hard. 

I  note  you  merciful  men  :  you  can  endure 
Torture  of  fishes  and  hidalgos.  Follows  t 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


16b 


Sephardo. 

By  how  much,  then,  the  fortunes  of  a  man 
Are  made  of  elements  refined  and  mixed 
Beyond  a  tunny’s,  what  our  science  tells 
Of  the  stars’  influence  hath  contingency 
In  special  issues.  Thus,  the  loadstone  draws, 

Acts  like  a  will  to  make  the  iron  submiss  ; 

But  garlic  rubbing  it,  that  chief  effect 
Lies  in  suspense  ;  the  iron  keeps  at  large, 

And  garlic  is  controller  of  the  stone. 

And  so,  my  lord,  your  horoscope  declares 
Naught  absolutely  of  your  sequent  lot, 

But,  by  our  lore’s  authentic  rules,  sets  forth 
What  gifts,  what  dispositions,  likelihoods, 

.  The  aspects  of  the  heavens  conspired  to  fuse 
With  your  incorporate  soul.  Aught  more  than  this 
Is  vulgar  doctrine.  For  the  ambient, 

Though  a  cause  regnant,  is  not  absolute, 

But  suffers  a  determining  restraint 
From  action  of  the  subject  qualities 
In  proximate  motion. 

Don  Silva. 

Yet  you  smiled  just  now 
At  some  close  fitting  of  my  horoscope 
With  present  fact,  —  with  this  resolve  of  mine 
To  quit  the  fortress  ? 

Sephardo. 

Nay,  not  so,  I  smiled, 
Observing  how  the  temper  of  your  soul 
Sealed  long  tradition  of  the  influence  shed 
By  the  heavenly  spheres.  Here  is  your  horoscope 
The  aspects  of  the  moon  with  Mars  conjunct, 

Of  Venus  and  the  Sun  with  Saturn,  lord 


166 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Of  the  ascendant,  make  symbolic  speech 
Whereto  your  words  gave  running  paraphrase. 

Don  Silva  ( impatiently ). 

What  did  I  say  ? 

Sephardo. 

You  spoke  as  oft  you  did 
When  I  was  schooling  you  at  Cordova, 

And  lessons  on  the  noun  and  verb  were  drowned 
With  sudden  stream  of  general  debate 
On  things  and  actions.  Always  in  that  stream 
I  saw  the  play  of  babbling  currents,  saw 
A  nature  o’er-endowed  with  opposites 
Making  a  self  alternate,  where  each  hour 
Was  critic  of  the  last,  each  mood  too  strong 
For  tolerance  of  its  fellow  in  close  yoke. 

The  ardent  planets  stationed  as  supreme, 

Potent  in  action,  suffer  light  malign 
From  luminaries  large  and  coldly  bright 
Inspiring  meditative  doubt,  which  straight 
Doubts  of  itself,  by  interposing  act 
Of  Jupiter  in  the  fourth  house  fortified 
With  power  ancestral.  So,  my  lord,  I  read 
The  changeless  in  the  changing ;  so  I  read 
The  constant  action  of  celestial  powers 
Mixed  into  waywardness  of  mortal  men, 
Whereof  no  sage’s  eye  can  trace  the  course 
And  see  the  close. 

Don  Silva. 

Fruitful  result,  0  sage  ! 

Certain  uncertainty. 

Sephardo. 

Yea,  a  result 

Fruitful  as  seeded  earth,  where  certainty 
Would  be  as  barren  as  a  globe  of  gold. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


167 


I  love  you,  and  would  serve  you  well,  my  lord. 

Your  rashness  vindicates  itself  too  much, 

Puts  harness  on  of  cobweb  theory 
While  rushing  like  a  cataract.  Be  warned. 

Be  solve  with  you  is  a  fire-breathing  steed, 

But  it  sees  visions,  and  may  feel  the  air 
Impassable  with  thoughts  that  come  too  late, 

Bising  from  out  the  grave  of  murdered  honor. 

Look  at  your  image  in  your  horoscope : 

( Laying  the  horoscope  before  Silva.) 
You  are  so  mixed,  my  lord,  that  each  to-day 
May  seem  a  maniac  to  its  morrow. 

Don  Silva  ( pushing  away  the  horoscope ,  rising  and 
turning  to  look  out  at  the  open  window'). 

No! 

No  morrow  e’er  will  say  that  I  am  mad 

Not  to  renounce  her.  Bisks  !  I  know  them  all. 

I ’ve  dogged  each  lurking,  ambushed  consequence. 

I  ’ve  handled  every  chance  to  know  its  shape 
As  blind  men  hrndle  bolts.  Oh,  I  ’m  too  sane  ! 

I  see  the  Prior’s  nets.  He  does  my  deed ; 

For  he  has  narrowed  all  my  life  to  this,  — 

That  I  must  find  her  by  some  hidden  means. 

( lie  turns  and  stands  close  in  front  of  Sephardo.) 

One  word,  Sephardo,  —  leave  that  horoscope, 

Which  is  but  iteration  of  myself, 

And  give  me  promise.  Shall  I  count  on  you 
To  act  upon  my  signal  ?  Kings  of  Spain 
Like  me  have  found  their  refuge  in  a  Jew, 

And  trusted  in  his  counsel.  You  will  help  me  ? 

Sephardo. 

Yes,  my  lord,  I  will  help  you.  Israel 
Is  to  the  nations  as  the  body’s  heart : 


A68 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Thus  saith  the  Book  of  Light :  and  I  will  act 
So  that  no  man  may  ever  say  through  me 
“  Your  Israel  is  naught/’  and  make  my  deeds 
The  mud  they  fling  upon  my  brethren. 

I  will  not  fail  you,  save,  —  you  know  the  terms : 

I  am  a  Jew,  and  not  that  infamous  life 
That  takes  on  bastardy,  will  know  no  father, 

So  shrouds  itself  in  the  pale  abstract,  Man. 

You  should  be  sacrificed  to  Israel 
If  Israel  needed  it. 

Don  Silva. 

I  fear  not  that. 

I  am  no  friend  of  fines  and  banishment, 

Or  flames  that,  fed  on  heretics,  still  gape, 

And  must  have  heretics  made  to  feed  them  still. 

I  take  your  terms,  and,  for  the  rest,  your  love 
Will  not  forsake  me. 

Sephardo. 

’T  is  hard  Roman  love, 

That  looks  away  and  stretches  forth  the  sword 
Bared  for  its  master’s  breast  to  run  upon. 

But  you  will  have  it  so.  Love  shall  obey. 

(Silva  turns  to  the  window  again ,  and  is  silent 
for  a  few  moments ,  looking  at  the  sky.) 

Don  Silva. 

See  now,  Sephardo,  you  would  keep  no  faith 
To  smooth  the  path  of  cruelty.  Confess, 

The  deed  I  would  not  do,  save  for  the  strait 
Another  brings  me  to  (quit  my  command, 

Resign  it  for  brief  space,  I  mean  no  more), — 

Were  that  deed  branded,  then  the  brand  should  fix 
On  him  who  urged  me. 


I 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


169 


Sephardo. 

Will  it,  though,  my  lord  ? 
Don  Silya. 

I  speak  not  of  the  fact,  but  of  the  right. 

Sephardo. 

My  lord,  you  said  but  now  you  were  resolved. 
Question  not  if  the  world  will  be  unjust 
Branding  your  deed.  If  conscience  has  two  courts 
With  differing  verdicts,  where  shall  lie  the  appeal  ? 
Our  law  must  be  without  us  or  within. 

The  Highest  speaks  through  all  our  people’s  voice. 
Custom,  tradition,  and  old  sanctities ; 

Or  he  reveals  himself  by  new  decrees 
Of  inward  certitude. 

Don  Silva. 

My  love  for  her 

Makes  highest  law,  must  be  the  voice  of  God. 

Sephardo. 

I  thought,  but  now,  you  seemed  to  make  excuse, 
And  plead  as  in  some  court  where  Spanish  knights 
Are  tried  by  other  laws  than  those  of  love. 

Don  Silva. 

’T  was  momentary.  I  shall  dare  it  all. 

How  the  great  planet  glows,  and  looks  at  me, 

And  seems  to  pierce  me  with  his  effluence ! 

Were  he  a  living  God,  these  rays  that  stir 
In  me  the  pulse  of  wonder  were  in  him 
Fulness  of  knowledge.  Are  you  certified, 
Sephardo,  that  the  astral  science  shrinks 
To  such  pale  ashes,  dead  symbolic  forms 
For  that  congenital  mixture  of  effects 
Which  life  declares  without  the  aid  of  lore  ? 


« 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


If  there  are  times  propitious  or  malign 
To  our  first  framing,  then  must  all  events 
Have  favoring  periods  :  you  cull  your  plants 
By  signal  of  the  heavens,  then  why  not  trace 
As  others  would  by  astrologic  rule 
Times  of  good  augury  for  momentous  acts,  — 

As  secret  journeys  ? 

Sephardo. 

O  my  lord,  the  stars 
Act  not  as  witchcraft  or  as  muttered  spells. 

I  said  before  they  are  not  absolute, 

And  tell  no  fortunes.  I  adhere  alone 
To  such  tradition  of  their  agencies 
As  reason  fortifies. 

Don  Silva. 

A  barren  science ! 

Some  argue  now ’t  is  folly.  ’T  were  as  well 

Be  of  their  mind.  If  those  bright  stars  had  will,  — 

But  they  are  fatal  fires,  and  know  no  love. 

Of  old,  I  think,  the  world  was  happier 
With  many  gods,  who  held  a  struggling  life 
As  mortals  do,  and  helped  men  in  the  straits 
Of  forced  misdoing.  I  doubt  that  horoscope. 

(Don  Silva  turns  from  the  windoio  and  re> 
seats  himself  opposite  Sephardo.) 

I  am  most  self-contained,  and  strong  to  bear. 

No  man  save  you  has  seen  my  trembling  lip 
Uttering  her  name,  since  she  was  lost  to  me. 

I  ’ll  face  the  progeny  of  all  my  deeds. 

Sephardo. 

May  they  be  fair !  No  horoscope  makes  slaves. 

*T  is  but  a  mirror,  shows  one  image  forth, 

And  leaves  the  future  dark  with  endless  “  ifs.’? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


171 


Don  Silva. 

I  marvel,  my  Sephardo,  you  can  pinch 
With  confident  selection  these  few  grains, 

And  call  them  verity,  from  out  the  dust 
Of  crumbling  error.  Surely  such  thought  creeps, 
With  insect  exploration  of  the  world. 

Were  I  a  Hebrew,  now,  I  would  be  bold. 

Why  should  you  fear,  not  being  Catholic  ? 

Sephardo. 

Lo  !  you  yourself,  my  lord,  mix  subtleties 
With  gross  belief ;  by  momentary  lapse 
Conceive,  with  all  the  vulgar,  that  we  Jews 
Must  hold  ourselves  God’s  outlaws,  and  defy 
All  good  with  blasphemy,  because  we  hold 
Your  good  is  evil ;  think  we  must  turn  pale 
To  see  our  portraits  painted  in  your  hell, 

And  sin  the  more  for  knowing  we  are  lost. 

Don  Silva. 

Read  not  my  words  with  malice.  I  but  meant, 
My  temper  hates  an  over-cautious  march. 

Sephardo. 

The  TJnnamable  made  not  the  search  for  truth 
To  suit  hidalgos’  temper.  I  abide 
By  that  wise  spirit  of  listening  reverence 
Which  marks  the  boldest  doctors  of  our  race. 

For  truth,  to  us,  is  like  a  living  child 
Born  of  two  parents  :  if  the  parents  part 
And  will  divide  the  child,  how  shall  it  live  ? 

Or,  I  will  rather  say :  Two  angels  guide 
The  path  of  man,  both  aged  and  yet  young, 

As  angels  are,  ripening  through  endless  years. 

On  one  he  leans :  some  call  her  Memory, 

And  some,  Tradition  ;  and  her  voice  is  sweet, 


\72 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


With  deep  mysterious  accords  :  the  other, 
Floating  above,  holds  down  a  lamp  which  streams 
A  light  divine  and  searching  on.  the  earth, 
Compelling  eyes  and  footsteps.  Memory  yields, 
Yet  clings  with  loving  check,  and  shines  anew 
Reflecting  all  the  rays  of  that  bright  lamp 
Our  angel  Reason  holds.  We  had  not  walked 
But  for  Tradition ;  we  walk  evermore 
To  higher  paths,  by  brightening  Reason’s  lamp. 
Still  we  are  purblind,  tottering.  I  hold  less 
Than  Aben-Ezra,  of  that  aged  lore 
Brought  by  long  centuries  from  Chaldsean  plains ; 
The  Jew-taught  Florentine  rejects  it  all. 

For  still  the  light  is  measured  by  the  eye, 

And  the  weak  organ  fails.  I  may  see  ill ; 

But  over  all  belief  is  faithfulness, 

Which  fulfils  vision  with  obedience. 

So,  I  must  grasp  my  morsels  :  truth  is  oft 
Scattered  in  fragments  round  a  stately  pile 
Built  half  of  error ;  and  the  eye’s  defect 
May  breed  too  much  denial.  But,  my  lord, 

I  weary  your  sick  soul.  Go  now  with  me 
Into  the  turret.  We  will  watch  the  spheres, 

And  see  the  constellations  bend  and  plunge 
Into  a  depth  of  being  where  our  eyes 
Hold  them  no  more.  We  ’ll  quit  ourselves  and  be 
The  red  Aldebaran  or  bright  Sirius, 

And  sail  as  in  a  solemn  voyage,  bound 
On  some  great  quest  we  know  not. 

Don  Silva. 

Let  us  go. 

She  may  be  watching  too,  and  thought  of  her 
Sways  me,  as  if  she  knew,  to  every  act 
Of  pure  allegiance. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


173 


Sephardo. 

That  is  love’s  perfection,  — - 
Tuning  the  soul  to  all  her  harmonies 
So  that  no  chord  can  jar.  Now  we  will  mount. 

(Exeunt.) 


A  large  hall  in  the  Castle ,  of  Moorish  architecture.  On  the 
side  where  the  windows  are,  an  outer  gallery.  Pages 
and  other  young  gentlemen  attached  to  Don  Silva’s 
household,  gathered  chiefly  at  one  end  of  the  hall. 
Some  are  moving  about ;  others  are  lounging  on  the 
carved  benches  ;  others,  half  stretched  on  pieces  of 
matting  and  carpet,  are  gambling.  Arias,  a  stripling 
of  fifteen,  sings  by  snatches  in  a  boyish  treble,  as  he 
walks  up  and  down,  and  tosses  back  the  nuts  ivhich 
another  youth  flings  towards  him.  In  the  middle  Don 
Amador,  a  gaunt,  gray-haired  soldier,  in  a  handsome 
uniform,  sits  in  a  marble  red-cushioned  chair,  with  a 
large  book  spread  out  on  his  knees ,  from  ivhich  he  is 
reading  aloud,  while  his  voice  is  half  drowned  by  the 
talk  that  is  going  on  around  him,  first  one  voice  and 
then  another  surging  above  the  hum. 


Arias  (singing). 

There  ivas  a  holy  hermit 
Who  counted  all  things  loss 
For  Christ  his  Master’s  glory  : 

He  made  an  ivory  cross, 

And  as  he  knelt  before  it 

And  wept  his  murdered  Lordt 
The  ivory  turned  to  iron, 

The  cross  became  a  sword. 


174 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Jos£  {from  the  floor). 

I  say,  twenty  cruzados  !  tliy  Galician  wit 
Can  never  count. 

Hernando  (also  from  the  floor). 

And  thy  Sevillian  wit  always  counts  double. 

Arias  (singing). 

The  tears  that  fell  upon  it, 

They  turned  to  red,  red  rust , 

The  tears  that  fell  from  off  it 
Made  writing  in  the  dust. 

The  holy  hermit,  gazing , 

Saw  words  upon  the  ground : 

“  The  sivord  be  red  forever 

With  the  blood  of  false  Mahound ." 

Don  Amador  (looking  up  from  his  book,  and  raising 

his  voice). 

What,  gentlemen  !  Our  glorious  Lady  defend  us  ! 

Enriquez  (from  the  benches). 

Serves  the  infidels  right !  They  have  sold  Christians 
enough  to  people  half  the  towns  in  Paradise.  If  the 
Queen,  now,  had  divided  the  pretty  damsels  of  Malaga 
among  the  Castilians  who  have  been  helping  in  the  holy 
war,  and  not  sent  half  of  them  to  Naples  .... 

Arias  (singing  again). 

At  the  battle  of  Clavijo 
In  the  days  of  King  Ramiro, 

Help  us,  Allah  !  cried  the  Moslem, 

Cried  the  Spaniard,  Heaven’s  chosen, 

God  and  Santiago  ! 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


175 


Fabian. 

Oh,  the  very  tail  of  our  chance  has  vanished.  The 
royal  army  is  breaking  up,  —  going  home  for  the  winter. 
The  Grand  Master  sticks  to  his  own  border. 

Arias  {singing). 

Straight  out-flushing  like  the  rainbow , 

See  him  come ,  celestial  Baron , 

Mounted  knight,  ivith  red-erossed  banner , 
Blunging  earthivard  to  the  battle , 

Glorious  Santiago  ! 

Hurtado. 

Yes,  yes,  through  the  pass  of  By-and-by  you  go  to  the 
valley  of  Never.  We  might  have  done  a  great  feat,  it 
the  Marquis  of  Cadiz  .... 

Arias  {sings). 

As  the  flame  before  the  swift  wind , 

See ,  he  fires  us,  we  burn  with  him  ! 

Flash  our  swords,  dash  Fagans  backward,  — 
Victory  he  !  jpale  fear  is  allah  ! 

God  with  Santiago  ! 

Don  Amador  {raising  his  voice  to  a  cry). 

Sangre  de  Dios,  gentlemen  ! 

{He  shuts  the  book,  and  lets  it  fall  with  a  bang  * 
on  the  floor.  There  is  instant  silence.) 

To  what  good  end  is  it  that  I,  who  studied  at  Sala¬ 
manca,  and  can  write  verses  agreeable  to  the  glorious 
Lady  with  the  point  of  a  sword  which  hath  done  harder 
service,  am  reading  aloud  in  a  clerkly  manner  from  a 
book  which  hath  been  culled  from  the  flowers  of  all 
books,  to  instruct  you  in  the  knowledge  befitting  those 


176 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


who  would  be  knights  and  worthy  hidalgos.  I  had  as 
lief  be  reading  in  a  belfry.  And  gambling  too  !  As  if 
it  were  a  time  when  we  needed  not  the  help  of  God  and 
the  saints  !  Surely  for  the  space  of  one  hour  ye  might 
subdue  your  tongues  to  your  ears  that  so  your  tongues 
might  learn  somewhat  of  civility  and  modesty.  Where¬ 
fore  am  I  master  of  the  Duke’s  retinue,  if  my  voice  is  to 
run  along  like  a  gutter  in  a  storm  ? 

Hurtado  ( lifting  up  the  book ,  and  respectfully  pre¬ 
senting  it  to  Don  Amador). 

Pardon,  Don  Amador  !  The  air  is  so  com  moved  by 
your  voice,  that  it  stirs  our  tongues  in  spite  of  us. 

Don  Amador  ( reopening  the  book). 

Confess,  now,  it  is  a  goose-headed  trick,  that  when 
rational  sounds  are  made  for  your  edification,  you  find 
naught  in  it  but  an  occasion  for  purposeless  gabble.  I 
will  report  it  to  the  Duke,  and  the  reading-time  shall  be 
doubled,  and  my  office  of  reader  shall  be  handed  over  to 
Fray  Domingo. 

( While  Dox  Amador  has  been  speaking ,  Don 
Silva,  with  Don  Alvar,  has  appeared  walk¬ 
ing  in  the  outer  gallery  on  which  the  windoics 
are  opened .) 

All  (in  concert ). 

No,  no,  no. 

Don  Amador. 

Are  ye  ready,  then,  to  listen,  if  I  finish  the  wholesome 
extract  from  the  Seven  Parts,  wherein  the  wise  King 
Alfonso  hath  set  down  the  reason  why  knights  should 
be  of  gentle  birth  ?  Will  ye  now  be  silent  ? 

All. 


Yes,  silent. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


177 


Don  Amador. 

Bui  when  I  pause,  and  look  up,  I  give  any  leave  to 
speak,  if  he  hath  aught  pertinent  to  say. 

(Reads.) 

“And  this  nobility  cometh  in  three  ways:  first,  by 
lineage ;  secondly ,  by  science ;  and  thirdly,  by  valor  and 
worthy  behavior.  Now,  although  they  who  gain  nobility 
through  science  or  good  deeds  are  rightfully  called  noble 
and  gentle  ;  nevertheless,  they  are  with  the  highest  fit¬ 
ness  so  called  who  are  noble  by  ancient  lineage,  and  lead 
a  worthy  life  as  by  inheritance  from  afar ;  and  hence  are 
more  bound  and  constrained  to  act  well,  and  guard  them¬ 
selves  from  error  and  wrong-doing ;  for  in  their  case  it 
is  more  true  that  by  evil-doing  they  bring  injury  and 
shame  not  only  on  themselves,  but  also  on  those  from 
whom  they  are  derived.” 

(Don  Amador  places  his  forefinger  for  a  mark  on 
the  page,  and  looks  up,  while  he  keeps  his  voice 
raised,  as  wishing  Don  Silva  to  overhear  him 
in  the  judicious  discharge  of  his  function.) 

Hear  ye  that,  young  gentlemen  ?  See  ye  not  that  if 
ye  have  but  bad  manners  even,  they  disgrace  you  more 
than  gross  misdoings  disgrace  the  low-born  ?  Think 
you,  Arias,  it  becomes  the  son  of  your  house  irrever¬ 
ently  to  sing  and  fling  nuts,  to  the  interruption  of  your 
elders  ? 

Arias  ( sitting  on  the  floor  and  leaning  backward  on 

his  elbows). 

Nay,  Don  Amador;  King  Alfonso,  they  say,  was  a 
heretic,  and  I  think  that  is  not  true  writing.  For  noble 
birth  gives  us  more  leave  to  do  ill  if  we  like. 

Don  Amador  ( lifting  his  brows). 

What  bold  and  blasphemous  talk  is  this  f 

12 


178 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Arias. 

Why,  nobles  are  only  punished  now  and  then,  in  a 
grand  way,  and  have  their  heads  cut  off,  like  the  Grand 
Constable.  I  should  n’t  mind  that. 

JosA 

Nonsense,  Arias !  nobles  have  their  heads  cut  off  be¬ 
cause  their  crimes  are  noble.  If  they  did  what  was 
unknightly,  they  would  come  to  shame..  Is  n’t  that  true, 
Don  Amador  ? 

Don  Amador. 

Arias  is  a  contumacious  puppy,  who  will  bring  dis¬ 
honor  on  his  parentage.  Pray,  sirrah,  whom  did  you 
ever  hear  speak  as  you  have  spoken  ? 


Arias. 

Nay,  I  speak  out  of  my  own  head.  I  shall  go  and  ask 
the  Duke. 


Hurtado. 

Now,  now  !  you  are  too  bold,  Arias. 


Arias. 

Oh,  he  is  never  angry  with  me  ( dropping  his  voice), 
because  the  lady  Fedalma  liked  me.  She  said  I  was 
a  good  boy,  and  pretty,  and  that  is  what  you  are  not, 
Hurtado. 

Hurtado. 

Girl-face  !  See,  now,  if  you  dare  ask  the  Duke. 

(Don  Silva  is  just  entering  the  hall  from  the 
gallery ,  with  Alvar  behind  him ,  intending  to 
pass  out  at  the  other  end.  All  rise  with  horn- 
age.  Don  Silva  bows  coldly  and  abstractedly. 
Arias  advances  from  the  group ,  and  goes  up  to 
Don  Silva.) 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


17$ 


Arias. 

My  lord,  is  it  true  that  a  noble  is  more  dishonored 
than  other  men  if  he  does  aught  dishonorable  ? 

Don  Silya  {first  blushing  deeply,  and  grasping  his  sword, 
then  raising  his  hand  and  giving  Arias  a  blow  on  the 
ear). 

Yarlet ! 


Arias. 

My  lord,  I  am  a  gentleman. 

(Don  Silva  pushes  him  away ,  and  passes  on  hur¬ 
riedly.  ) 


Don  Alvar  ( following  and  turning  to  speak). 

Go,  go  !  you  should  not  speak  to  the  Duke  when  you 
are  not  called  upon.  He  is  ill  and  much  distempered. 

(Arias  retires ,  flushed,  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 
His  companions  look  too  much  surprised  to  tri¬ 
umph.  Don  Amador  remains  silent  and  con¬ 
fused.) 


The  Plaga  Santiago  during  busy  market  time.  Mules 
and  asses  laden  with  fruits  and  vegetables.  Stalls 
and  booths  filled  with  wares  of  all  sorts.  A  crowd  of 
buyers  and  sellers.  A  stalwart  icoman  with  keen  eyes , 
leaning  over  the  panniers  of  a  mule  laden  with  apples, 
watches  Lorenzo,  who  is  lounging  through  the  mar¬ 
ket.  As  he  approaches  her,  he  is  met  by  Blasco. 

Lorenzo. 

Well  met,  friend. 

Blasco. 

Ay,  for  we  are  soon  to  part, 

And  I  would  see  you  at  the  hostelry, 

To  take  my  reckoning.  I  go  forth  to-day. 


180 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Lorenzo. 

*T  is  grievous  parting  with  good  company. 
I  would  I  had  the  gold  to  pay  such  guests 
For  all  my  pleasure  in  their  talk. 


Blasco. 

Why,  yes ; 

A  solid-headed  man  of  Aragon 

Has  matter  in  him  that  you  Southerners  lack. 

You  like  my  company,  —  ?t  is  natural. 

But,  look  you,  I  have  done  my  business  well, 

Have  sold  and  ta’en  commissions.  I  come  straight 
From  —  you  know  who  —  I  like  not  naming  him. 

I ’m  a  thick  man :  you  reach  not  my  backbone 
With  any  toothpick.  But  I  tell  you  this  : 

He  reached  it  with  his  eye,  right  to  the  marrow ! 

It  gave  me  heart  that  I  had  plate  to  sell, 

For,  saint  or  no  saint,  a  good  silversmith 
Is  wanted  for  God’s  service  ;  and  my  plate  — 

He  judged  it  well  —  bought  nobly. 


And  holy ! 


Lorenzo. 


A  great  man. 


Blasco. 


Yes,  I  ?m  glad  I  leave  to-day. 

For  there  are  stories  give  a  sort  of  smell,  — 

One’s  nose  has  fancies.  A  good  trader,  sir, 

Likes  not  this  plague  of  lapsing  in  the  air, 

Most  ught  by  men  with  funds.  And  they  do  say 
There’s  a  great  terror  here  in  Moors  and  Jews, 

I  would  say,  Christians  of  unhappy  blood. 

’T  is  monstrous,  sure,  that  men  of  substance  lapse, 
And  risk  their  property.  I  know  I ’m  sound. 

No  heresy  was  ever  bait  to  me.  Whate’er 
Is  the  right  faith,  that  I  believe,  —  naught  else. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


181 


Lorenzo. 

Ay,  truly,  for  the  flavor  of  true  faith 

Once  known  must  sure  be  sweetest  to  the  taste. 

But  an  uneasy  mood  is  now  abroad 
Within  the  town  ;  partly,  for  that  the  Duke 
Being  sorely  sick,  has  yielded  the  command 
To  Don  Diego,  a  most  valiant  man, 

More  Catholic  than  the  Holy  Father’s  self, 

Half  chiding  God  that  he  will  tolerate 
A  Jew  or  Arab ;  though  ’t  is  plain  they  ’re  made 
For  profit  of  good  Christians.  And  weak  heads  — 
Panic  will  knit  all  disconnected  facts  — 

Draw  hence  belief  in  evil  auguries, 

Bumors  of  accusation  and  arrest, 

All  air-begotten.  Sir,  you  need  not  go. 

But  if  it  must  be  so,  I  ’ll  follow  you 
In  fifteen  minutes,  —  finish  marketing, 

Then  be  at  home  to  speed  you  on  your  way. 

Blasco. 

Do  so.  I  ’ll  back  to  Saragossa  straight. 

The  court  and  nobles  are  retiring  now 

And  wending  northward.  There  ’ll  be  fresh  demand 

For  bells  and  images  against  the  Spring, 

When  doubtless  our  great  Catholic  sovereigns 
Will  move  to  conquest  of  these  eastern  parts, 

And  cleanse  Granada  from  the  infidel. 

Stay,  sir,  with  God  until  we  meet  again ! 

Lorenzo. 

Go,  sir,  with  God,  until  I  follow  you ! 

( Exit  Blasco.  Lorenzo  passes  on  towards  ite 
market-woman ,  who ,  as  he  approaches ,  raiser 
herself  from  her  leaning  attitude .) 


182 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Lorenzo. 

Good  day,  my  mistress.  How ’s  your  merchandise  ? 
Fit  for  a  host  to  buy  ?  Your  apples  now, 

They  have  fair  cheeks  ;  how  are  they  at  the  core  ? 


M  ARKET-W  OMAN. 

Good,  good,  sir !  Taste  and  try.  See,  here  is  one 
Weighs  a  man’s  head.  The  best  are  bound  with  tow : 
They  ’re  worth  the  pains,  to  keep  the  peel  from  splits. 

(She  takes  out  an  apple  hound  with  tow ,  and,  as 
she  puts  it  into  Lorenzo’s  hand ,  speaks  in  a 
lower  tone.) 

*T  is  called  the  Miracle.  You  open  it, 

And  find  it  full  of  speech. 

Lorenzo. 

Ay,  give  it  me, 

I  ’ll  take  it  to  the  Doctor  in  the  tower. 

He  feeds  on  fruit,  and  if  he  likes  the  sort 
I  ’ll  buy  them  for  him.  Meanwhile,  drive  your  ass 
Round  to  my  hostelry.  I  ’ll  straight  be  there. 

You  ’ll  not  refuse  some  barter  ? 


Market- W  om  an. 


Feathers  and  skins. 


No,  not  I. 


Lorenzo. 

Good,  till  we  meet  again. 

(Lorenzo,  after  smelling  at  the  apple ,  puts  it  into 
a  pouch-like  basket  which  hangs  before  him ,  and 
walks  away.  The  woman  drives  off  the  mule.) 


A  Letter. 

“  Zarca,  the  chief  of  the  Zincali,  greets 
The  King  El  Zagal.  Let  ohe  force  be  sent 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


383 


With  utmost  swiftness  to  the  Pass  of  Luz. 

A  good  five  hundred  added  to  my  bands 
Will  master  all  the  garrison  :  the  town 
Is  half  with  us,  and  will  not  lift  an  arm 
Save  on  our  side.  My  scouts  have  found  a  way 
Where  once  we  thought  the  fortress  most  secure : 
Spying  a  man  upon  the  height,  they  traced, 

By  keen  conjecture  piecing  broken  sight, 

His  downward  path,  and  found  its  issue.  There 
A  file  of  us  can  mount,  surprise  the  fort 
And  give  the  signal  to  our  friends  within 
To  ope  the  gates  for  our  confederate  bands, 

Who  will  lie  eastward  ambushed  by  the  rocks, 
Waiting  the  night.  Enough  ;  give  me  command, 
Bedm£r  is  yours.  Chief  Zarca  will  redeem 
His  pledge  of  highest  service  to  the  Moor : 

Let  the  Moor,  too,  be  faithful  and  repay 
The  Gypsy  with  the  furtherance  he  needs 
To  lead  his  people  over  Bahr  el  Scham 
And  plant  them  on  the  shore  of  Africa. 

So  may  the  King  El  Zagal  live  as  one 
Who,  trusting  Allah  will  be  true  to  him, 

Maketh  himself  as  Allah  true  to  friends.** 


. 

' 

■ 

. 


BOOK  III. 


Quit  now  the  town,  and  with  a  journeying  dream 
Swift  as  the  wings  of  sound  yet  seeming  slow 
Through  multitudinous  compression  of  stored  sense 
And  spiritual  space,  see  walls  and  towers 
Lie  in  the  silent  whiteness  of  a  trance, 

Giving  no  sign  of  that  warm  life  within 

That  moves  and  murmurs  through  their  hidden  heart. 

Pass  o’er  the  mountain,  wind  in  sombre  shade, 

Then  wind  into  the  light  and  see  the  town 
Shrunk  to  white  crust  upon  the  darken  rock. 

Turn  east  and  south,  descend,  then  rise  anew 
’Mid  smaller  mountains  ebbing  towards  the  plain : 
Scent  the  fresh  breath  of  the  height-loving  herbs 
That,  trodden  by  the  pretty  parted  hoofs 
Of  nimble  goats,  sigh  at  the  innocent  bruise, 

And  with  a  mingled  difference  exquisite 
Pour  a  sweet  burden  on  the  buoyant  air. 

Pause  now  and  be  all  ear.  Far  from  the  south, 
Seeking  the  listening  silence  of  the  heights, 

Comes  a  slow-dying  sound,  —  the  Moslems’  call 
To  prayer  in  afternoon.  Bright  in  the  sun 
Like  tall  white  sails  on  a  green  shadowy  sea 
Stand  Moorish  watch-towers  :  ’neatli  that  eastern  sky 
Couches  unseen  the  strength  of  Moorish  Baza: 

Where  the  meridian  bends  lies  Guadix,  hold 
Of  brave  El  Zagal.  This  is  Moorish  land, 

Where  Allah  lives  unconquered  in  dark  breasts 
And  blesses  still  the  many-nourishing  earth 
With  dark-armed  industry.  See  from  the  steep 
The  scattered  olives  hurry  in  gray  throngs 
Oown  towards  the  valley,  where  the  little  stream 


186 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Parts  a  green  hollow  ’twixt  the  gentler  slopes ; 

And  in  that  hollow,  dwellings  :  not  white  homes 
Of  building  Moors,  but  little  swarthy  tents 
Such  as  of  old  perhaps  on  Asian  plains, 

Or  wending  westward  past  the  Caucasus, 

Our  fathers  raised  to  rest  in.  Close  they  swarm 
About  two  taller  tents,  and  viewed  afar 
Might  seem  a  dark-robed  crowd  in  penitence 
That  silent  kneel ;  but  come  now  in  their  midst 
And  watch  a  busy,  bright-eyed,  sportive  life  ! 

Tall  maidens  bend  to  feed  the  tethered  goat. 

The  ragged  kirtle  fringing  at  the  knee 

Above  the  living  curves,  the  shoulder’s  smoothness 

Parting  the  torrent  strong  of  ebon  hair. 

Women  with  babes,  the  wild  and  neutral  glance 
Swayed  now  to  sweet  desire  of  mothers’  eyes, 

Rock  their  strong  cradling  arms  and  chant  low  strains 
Taught  by  monotonous  and  soothing  winds 
That  fall  at  night-time  on  the  dozing  ear. 

The  crones  plait  reeds,  or  shred  the  vivid  herbs 
Into  the  caldron :  tiny  urchins  crawl 
Or  sit  and  gurgle  forth  their  infant  joy. 

Lads  lying  sphinx-like  with  uplifted  breast 

Propped  on  their  elbows,  their  black  manes  tossed  back, 

Fling  up  the  coin  and  watch  its  fatal  fall, 

Dispute  and  scramble,  run  and  wrestle  fierce, 

Then  fall  to  play  and  fellowship  again ; 

Or  in  a  thieving  swarm  they  run  to  plague 
The  grandsires,  who  return  with  rabbits  slung, 

And  with  the  mules  fruit-laden  from  the  fields. 

Some  striplings  choose  the  smooth  stones  from  the  brook 
To  serve  the  slingers,  cut  the  twigs  for  snares, 

Or  trim  the  hazel-wands,  or  at  the  bark 
Of  some  exploring  dog  they  dart  away 
With  swift  precision  towards  a  moving  speck. 


“His  doublet  loose,  his  right  arm  backward  Hung. 
His  left  caressing  close  the  long-necked  lute.’1 


- 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


187 


These  are  the  brood  of  Zarca’s  Gypsy  tribe ; 

Most  like  an  earth-born  race  bred  by  the  Sun 
On  some  rich  tropic  soil,  the  father’s  light 
Flashing  in  coal  black  eyes,  the  mother’s  blood 
With  bounteous  elements  feeding  their  young  limbs. 
The  stalwart  men  and  youths  are  at  the  wars 
Following  their  chief,  all  save  a  trusty  band 
Who  keep  strict  watch  along  the  northern  heights. 

But  see,  upon  a  pleasant  spot  removed 

From  the  camp’s  hubbub,  where  the  thicket  strong 

Of  huge-eared  cactus  makes  a  bordering  curve 

And  casts  a  shadow,  lies  a  sleeping  man 

With  Spanish  hat  screening  his  upturned  face, 

His  doublet  loose,  his  right  arm  backward  flung, 

His  left  caressing  close  the  long-necked  lute 
That  seems  to  sleep  too,  leaning  tow’rds  its  lord. 

He  draws  deep  breath  secure  but  not  unwatchedo 
Moving  a-tiptoe,  silent  as  the  elves, 

As  mischievous  too,  trip  three  barefooted  girls 
Not  opened  yet  to  womanhood,  —  dark  flowers 
In  slim  long  buds  :  some  paces  farther  off 
Gathers  a  little  white-teethed  shaggy  group, 

A  grinning  chorus  to  the  merry  play. 

The  tripping  girls  have  robbed  the  sleeping  man 
Of  all  his  ornaments.  Hita  is  decked 
With  an  embroidered  scarf  across  her  rags  ; 

Tralla,  with  thorns  for  pins,  sticks  two  rosettes 
Upon  her  threadbare  woollen  ;  Hinda  now, 

Prettiest  and  boldest,  tucks  her  kirtle  up 
As  wallet  for  the  stolen  buttons,  —  then 
Bends  with  her  knife  to  cut  from  off  the  hat 
The  aigrette  and  the  feather ;  deftly  cuts, 

Yet  wakes  the  sleeper,  who  with  sudden  start 
Shakes  off  the  masking  hat  and  shows  the  face 


# 


188 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Of  Juan  :  Hinda  swift  as  thought  leaps  back. 

But  carries  off  the  feather  and  aigrette, 

And  leads  the  chorus  of  a  happy  laugh, 

Running  with  all  the  naked-footed  imps, 

Till  with  safe  survey  all  can  face  about 
And  watch  for  signs  of  stimulating  chase, 

While  Hinda  ties  long  grass  around  her  brow 
To  stick  the  feather  in  with  majesty. 

Juan  still  sits  contemplative,  with  looks 
Alternate  at  the  spoilers  and  their  work. 

Juan. 

Ah,  you  marauding  kite,  —  my  feather  gone ! 

My  belt,  my  scarf,  my  buttons  and  rosettes ! 

This  is  to  be  a  brother  of  Zincali ! 

The  fiery-blooded  children  of  the  Sun, — 

So  says  chief  Zarca,  —  children  of  the  Sun  ! 

Ay,  ay,  the  black  and  stinging  flies  he  breeds 
To  plague  the  decent  body  of  mankind. 

Orpheus,  professor  of  the  gai  saber , 

Made  all  the  brutes  polite,  they  say,  by  dint  of  song. 

Pregnant,  —  but  as  a  guide  in  daily  life 

Delusive.  For  if  song  and  music  cure 

The  barbarous  trick  of  thieving,  Jt  is  a  cure 

That  works  as  slowly  as  old  Doctor  Time 

In  curing  folly.  Why,  the  minxes  there 

Have  rhythm  in  their  toes,  and  music  rings 

As  readily  from  them  as  from  little  bells 

Swung  by  the  breeze.  Well,  I  will  try  the  physic. 

(. He  touches  his  lute.) 

Hem !  taken  rightly,  any  single  thing 
The  Rabbis  say,  implies  all  other  things. 

A  knotty  task,  though,  the  unravelling 
Meum  and  Tuum  from  a  saraband : 

It  needs  a  subtle  logic,  nay,  perhaps 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


189 


A  good  large  property,  to  see  the  thread. 

( He  touches  the  lute  again.') 
There  ?s  more  of  odd  than  even  in  this  world, 

Else  pretty  sinners  would  not  be  let  off 

Sooner  than  ugly  ;  for  if  honeycombs 

Are  to  be  got  by  stealing,  they  should  go 

Where  life  is  bitterest  on  the  tongue.  And  yet,  — 

P>ecause  this  minx  has  pretty  ways  I  wink 

At  all  her  tricks,  though  if  a  flat-faced  lass, 

With  eyes  askew,  were  half  as  bold  as  she, 

I  should  chastise  her  with  a  hazel  switch. 

I  hn  a  plucked  peacock,  —  even  my  voice  and  wit 
Without  a  tail !  —  why,  any  fool  detects 
The  absence  of  your  tail,  but  twenty  fools 
May  not  detect  the  presence  of  your  wit. 

{He  touches  his  lute  again.) 

Well,  I  must  coax  my  tail  back  cunningly, 

For  to  run  after  these  brown  lizards,  —  ah  ! 

I  think  the  lizards  lift  their  ears  at  this. 

(As  he  thrums  his  lute  the  lads  and  girls  gradu¬ 
ally  approach :  he  touches  it  more  briskly,  and 
Hinda,  advancing ,  begins  to  move  arms  and 
legs  ivith  an  initiatory  dancing  movement , 
smiling  coaxingly  at  J uan.  He  suddenly  stops, 
lays  down  his  lute  and  folds  his  arms?) 

What,  you  expected  a  tune  to  dance  to,  eh  ? 

Hinda,  Hita,  Tralla,  and  the  rest  (dapping 

their  hands). 

Yes,  yes,  a  tune,  a  tune  ! 

Juan. 

But  that  is  what  you  cannot  have,  my  sweet  brothers 
and  sisters.  The  tunes  are  all  dead,  —  dead  as  the  tunes 
of  the  lark  when  you  have  plucked  his  wings  off ;  dead 


190 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


as  tJie  song  of  the  grasshopper  when  the  ass  has  swal¬ 
lowed  him.  I  can  play  and  sing  no  more.  Hinda  has 
killed  my  tunes. 

(All  cry  out  in  consternation.  Hinda  gives  a  wail 
and  tries  to  examine  the  lute.  Juan  waves  her 

off-) 

Understand,  Senora  Hinda,  that  the  tunes  are  in  me  ; 
they  are  not  in  the  lute  till  I  put  them  there.  And  if 
you  cross  my  humor,  I  shall  be  as  tuneless  as  a  bag  of 
wool.  If  the  tunes  are  to  be  brought  to  life  again,  I 
must  have  my  feather  back. 

(Hinda  kisses  his  hands  and  feet  coaxingly .) 

No,  no !  not  a  note  will  come  for  coaxing.  The  feather, 
I  say,  the  feather ! 

(Hinda  sorrowfully  takes  off  the  feather,  and  gives 
it  to  Juan.) 

Ah,  now  let  us  see.  Perhaps  a  tune  will  come. 

(He  plays  a  measure ,  and  the  three  girls  begin  to 
dance  ;  then  he  suddenly  stops. ) 

No,  the  tune  will  not  come:  it  wants  the  aigrette 
( pointing  to  it  ^ n  Hinda’s  neck). 

(Hinda,  with  rather  less  hesitation ,  but  again  sor¬ 
rowfully ,  takes  off  the  aigrette ,  and  gives  it  to 
him.) 

Ha !  (he  plays  again ,  but ,  after  rather  a  longer  time , 
again  stops.)  No,  no;  ’t  is  the  buttons  are  wanting, 
Hinda,  the  buttons.  This  tune  feeds  chiefly  on  but¬ 
tons,  —  a  hungry  tune.  It  wants  one,  two,  three,  four, 
five,  six.  Good ! 

(After  Hinda  has  given  up  the  buttons ,  and  J uan 
has  laid  them  down  one  by  one ,  he  begins  to 
play  again ,  going  on  longer  than  before ,  so  thal 
the  dancers  become  excited  by  the  movement 
Then  he  stops.) 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


191 


Ah,  Hita,  it  is  the  belt,  and,  Tralla,  the  rosettes,— 
both  are  wanting.  I  see  the  tune  will  not  go  on  without 
them. 

(Hita  and  Tralla  take  ojf  the  belt  and  rosettes , 
and  lay  them  down  quickly ,  being  fired  by  the 
dancing ,  and  eager  for  the  music.  All  the  arti¬ 
cles  lie  by  Juan’s  side  on  the  ground .) 

Good,  good,  my  docile  wild-cats!  Now  I  think  the 
tunes  are  all  alive  again.  Now  you  may  dance  and  sing 
too.  Hinda,  my  little  screamer,  lead  off  with  the  song 
I  taught  you,  and  let  us  see  if  the  tune  will  go  right  on 
from  beginning  to  end. 

{lie  plays.  The  dance  begins  again ,  Hinda  singing. 
All  the  other  boys  and  girls  join  in  the  chorus , 
and  all  at  last  dance  wildly .) 

Song. 

All  things  journey :  sun  and  moon, 

Morning ,  noon,  and  afternoon , 

Night  and  all  her  stars : 
i  Twixt  the  east  and  western  bars 
Hound  they  journey. 

Come  and  go  ! 

We  go  with  them  ! 

For  to  roam  and  ever  roam 
Is  the  wild  ZincalVs  home. 

Earth  is  good ,  the  hillside  breaks 
By  the  ashen  roots  and  makes 
Hungry  nostrils  glad : 

Then  we  run  till  ice  are  mad , 

Like  the  horses , 

And  we  cry , 

None  shall  catch  us/ 

Swift  winds  wing  us,  —  we  are  free,  — 

Drink  the  air,  —  Zincali  we  I 


192 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Falls  the  snow  :  the  pine-branch  split, 

Call  the  fire  out ,  see  it  flit, 

Through  the  dry  leaves  run , 

Spread  and  glow ,  and  make  a  sun 
hi  the  dark  tent : 

0  warm  dark  ! 

Warm  as  conies  ! 

Strong  fire  loves  us,  we  are  ivarm  / 

Who  shall  work  Zincali  harm  ? 

Onward  journey :  fires  are  spent ; 

Sunward,  sunward  !  lift  the  tent, 

liun  before  the  rain, 

Through  the  pass,  along  the  plain. 

Hurry,  hurry, 

Lift  us,  wind  ! 

Like  the  horses. 

For  to  roam  and  ever  roam 

Is  the  wild  Zincali’s  home. 

* 

{When  the  dance  is  at  its  height,  Hinda  breaks 
away  from  the  rest,  and  dances  round  Juan, 
who  is  now  standing.  As  he  turns  a  little  to 
watch  her  movement,  some  of  the  boys  skip 
towards  the  feather,  aigrette,  &c.,  snatch  them 
up,  and  run  away ,  swiftly  followed  by  Hita, 
Tralla,  and  the  rest.  Hinda,  as  she  turns 
again,  sees  them,  screams,  and  falls  in  her  whirl¬ 
ing  ;  but  immediately  gets  up,  and  rushes  after 
them,  still  screaming  with  rage.) 

Juan. 

Santiago !  these  imps  get  bolder.  Haha !  Senora  Hinda, 
mils  finishes  your  lesson  in  ethics.  You  have  seen  the 
advantage  of  giving  up  stolen  goods.  Now  you  see  the 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


193 


ugliness  of  thieving  when  practised  by  others.  That 
fable  of  mine  about  the  tunes  was  excellently  devised. 
I  feel  like  an  ancient  sage  instructing  our  lisping  ances¬ 
tors.  My  memory  will  descend  as  the  Orpheus  of  Gyp¬ 
sies.  But  I  must  prepare  a  rod  for  those  rascals.  I  ’ll 
bastinado  them  with  prickly  pears.  It  seems  to  me 
these  needles  will  have  ft  sound  moral  teaching  in  them. 

( While  Juan  takes  a  knife  from  his  belt,  and  sur¬ 
veys  the  prickly  pear,  Hinda  returns .) 

Juan. 

Pray,  Senora,  why  do  you  fume  ?  Did  you  want  to 
steal  my  ornaments  again  yourself  ? 

Hinda  (sobbing), 

No;  I  thought  you  would  give  them  me  back  again. 

Juan. 

What,  did  you  want  the  tunes  to  die  again  ?  Do  you 
like  finery  better  than  dancing  ? 

Hinda. 

Oh,  that  was  a  tale;  I  shall  tell  tales  too,  when  I 
want  to  get  anything  I  can’t  steal.  And  I  know  what 
I  will  do.  I  shall  tell  the  boys  I ’ve  found  some  little 
foxes,  and  I  will  never  say  where  they  are  till  they  give 
me  back  the  feather  !  ( She  runs  off  again.) 

Juan. 

Hem !  the  disciple  seems  to  seize  the  mode  sooner 
than  the  matter.  Teaching  virtue  with  this  prickly  pear 
may  only  teach  the  youngsters  to  use  a  new  weapon ; 
as  your  teaching  orthodoxy  with  fagots  may  only  bring 
up  a  fashion  of  roasting.  Dios  !  my  remarks  grow  too 
pregnant,  —  my  wits  get  a  plethora  by  solitary  feeding 

on  the  produce  of  my  own  wisdom. 

13 


194 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


(As  he  puts  up  his  knife  again ,  Hinda  comes  rum 
ning  back ,  and  crying ,  “  Our  Queen  !  our  Queen  ! ” 
Juan  adjusts  his  garments  and  his  lute ,  while 
Hinda  turns  to  meet  Fedalma,  who  wears  a 
Moorish  dress,  with  gold  ornaments,  her  black 
hair  hanging  round  her  in  plaits,  a  white  turban 
on  her  head,  a  dagger  by  her  side.  She  carries 
a  scarf  on  her  left  arm,  which  she  holds  up  as 
a  shade.) 

Fed  alma  ( patting  Hinda’s  head). 

How  now,  wild  one  ?  You  are  hot  and  panting.  Go 
to  my  tent,  and  help  Nouna  to  plait  reeds. 

(Hinda  kisses  Fedalma’s  hand,  and  runs  off. 
Fed  alma  advances  towards  Juan,  who  kneels 
to  take  up  the  edge  of  her  cymar,  and  kisses  it.) 

Juan. 

How  is  it  with  you,  lady  ?  You  look  sad. 

Fed  alma. 

Oh,  I  am  sick  at  heart.  The  eye  of  day, 

The  insistent  summer  sun,  seems  pitiless, 

Shining  in  all  the  barren  crevices 
Of  weary  life,  leaving  no  shade,  no  dark, 

Where  I  may  dream  that  hidden  waters  lie ; 

As  pitiless  as  to  some  shipwrecked  man, 

Who,  gazing  from  his  narrow  shoal  of  sand 
On  the  wide  unspecked  round  of  blue  and  blue, 

Sees  that  full  light  is  errorless  despair. 

The  insects’  hum  that  slurs  the  silent  dark 
Startles,  and  seems  to  cheat  me,  as  the  tread 
Of  coming  footsteps  cheats  the  midnight  watcher 
Who  holds  her  heart  and  waits  to  hear  them  pause, 
And  hears  them  never  pause,  but  pass  and  die. 

Music  sweeps  by  me  as  a  messenger 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


Carrying  a  message  that  is  not  for  me. 

The  very  sameness  of  the  hills  and  sky 

Is  obduracy,  and  the  lingering  hours 

Wait  round  me  dumbly,  like  superfluous  slaves, 

Of  whom  I  want  naught  but  the  secret  news 
They  are  forbid  to  tell.  And,  Juan,  you  — 

You,  too,  are  cruel  —  would  be  over-wise 
In  judging  your  friend’s  needs,  and  choose  to  hide 
Something  I  crave  to  know. 


Juan. 

I,  lady  ? 


Fed  alma. 


You. 

Juan. 

I  never  had  the  virtue  to  hide  aught, 

Save  what  a  man  is  whipped  for  publishing. 

I ’m  no  more  reticent  than  the  voluble  air,  — 
Dote  on  disclosure, — never  could  contain 
The  latter  half  of  all  my  sentences, 

But  for  the  need  to  utter  the  beginning. 

My  lust  to  tell  is  so  importunate 
That  it  abridges  every  other  vice, 

And  makes  me  temperate  for  wailt  of  time. 

I  dull  sensation  in  the  haste  to  say 
’T  is  this  or  that,  and  choke  report  with  surmise. 
Judge,  then,  dear  lady,  if  I  could  be  mute 
When  but  a  glance  of  yours  had  bid  me  speak. 


Fed  alma. 

Nay,  sing  such  falsities  !  — you  mock  me  worse 
By  speech  that  gravely  seems  to  ask  belief. 

You  are  but  babbling  in  a  part  you  play 

To  please  my  father.  Oh,  ’t  is  well  meant,  say  you 

Pity  for  woman’s  weakness.  Take  my  thanks. 


196 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Juan. 

Thanks  angrily  bestowed  are  red-hot  coin 
Burning  your  servant’s  palm. 

Fed  alma. 

Deny  it  not, 

You  know  how  many  leagues  this  camp  of  ours 
Lies  from  Bedmar,  —  what  mountains  lie  between, 
Could  tell  me  if  you  would  about  the  Duke,  — 
That  he  is  comforted,  sees  how  he  gains 
By  losing  the  Zincala,  finds  how  slight 
The  thread  Fedalma  made  in  that  rich  web, 

A  Spanish  noble’s  life.  No,  that  is  false ! 

He  never  would  think  lightly  of  our  love. 

Some  evil  has  befallen  him,  —  he ’s  slain,  — 

Has  sought  for  danger  and  has  beckoned  death 
Because  I  made  all  life  seem  treachery. 

Tell  me  the  worst,  —  be  merciful,  —  no  worst, 
Against  the  hideous  painting  of  my  fear, 

Would  not  show  like  a  better. 

Juan. 

If  I  speak, 

Will  you  believe  your  slave  ?  For  truth  is  scant ; 
And  where  the  appetite  is  still  to  hear 
And  not  believe,  falsehood  would  stint  it  less. 
How  say  you  ?  Does  your  hunger’s  fancy  choose 
The  meagre  fact  ? 

Fedalma  ( seating  herself  on  the  ground). 

Yes,  yes,  the  truth,  dear  Juan. 
Sit  now,  and  tell  me  all. 

Juan. 

That  all  is  naught. 

I  can  unleash  my  fancy  if  you  wish 

And  hunt  for  phantoms :  shoot  an  airy  guess 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSA. 


19  4 


And  bring  down  airy  likelihood,  —  some  lie 
Masked  cunningly  to  look  like  royal  truth 
And  cheat  the  shooter,  while  King  Fact  goes  free, 

Or  else  some  image  of  reality 

That  doubt  will  handle  and  reject  as  false. 

Ask  for  conjecture,  —  I  can  thread  the  sky 
Like  any  swallow,  but,  if  you  insist, 

On  knowledge  that  would  guide  a  pair  of  feet 
Eight  to  Bedmar,  across  the  Moorish  bounds, 

A  mule  that  dreams  of  stumbling  over  stones 
Is  better  stored. 

Fed  alma. 

And  you  have  gathered  naught 
About  the  border  wars  ?  No  news,  no  hint 
Of  any  rumors  that  concern  the  Duke,  — 

Humors  kept  from  me  by  my  father  ? 

Juan. 

None. 

Your  father  trusts  no  secrets  to  the  echoes. 

Of  late  his  movements  have  been  hid  from  all 
Save  those  few  hundred  picked  Zincali  breasts 
He  carries  with  him.  Think  you  he  ?s  a  man 
To  let  his  projects  slip  from  out  his  belt, 

Then  whisper  him  who  haps  to  find  them  strayed 
To  be  so  kind  as  keep  his  counsel  well  ? 

Why,  if  he  found  me  knowing  aught  too  much, 

He  would  straight  gag  or  strangle  me,  and  say, 

“  Poor  hound  !  it  was  a  pity  that  his  bark 

Could  chance  to  mar  my  plans  :  he  loved  my  daughter,  — 

The  idle  hound  had  naught  to  do  but  love, 

So  followed  to  the  battle  and  got  crushed.” 

•  Fed  alma  ( holding  out  her  hand,  which  J  uan  kisses). 
Good  Juan,  I  could  have  no  nobler  friend. 

You  Jd  ope  your  veins  and  let  your  life-blood  out 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


To  save  another’s  pain,  yet  hide  the  deed 
With  jesting,  — say,  ’t  was  merest  accident, 

A  sportive  scratch  that  went  by  chance  too  deep,  - 
And  die  content  with  men’s  slight  thought  of  you, 
Finding  your  glory  in  another’s  joy. 

Juan. 

Dub  not  my  likings  virtues,  lest  they  get 
A  drug-like  taste,  and  breed  a  nausea. 

Honey ’s  not  sweet,  commended  as  cathartic. 

Such  names  are  parchment  labels  upon  gems 
Hiding  their  color.  What  is  lovely  seen 
Priced  in  a  tariff  ?  —  lapis  lazuli, 

Such  bulk,  so  many  drachmas  :  amethysts 
Quoted  at  so  much ;  sapphires  higher  still. 

The  stone  like  solid  heaven  in  its  blueness 
Is  what  I  care  for,  not  its  name  or  price. 

So,  if  I  live  or  die  to  serve  my  friend, 

’T  is  for  my  love,  —  ’t  is  for  my  friend  alone, 

And  not  for  any  rate  that  friendship  bears 
In  heaven  or  on  earth.  Nay,  I  romance,  — 

I  talk  of  Roland  and  the  ancient  peers. 

In  me ’t  is  hardly  friendship,  only  lack 
Of  a  substantial  self  that  holds  a  weight ; 

So  I  kiss  larger  things  and  roll  with  them. 

Fedalma. 

Nay,  you  will  never  hide  your  soul  from  me ; 

I’ve  seen  the  jewel’s  flash,  and  know  ’tis  there, 
Muffle  it  as  you  will.  That  foam-like  talk 
Will  not  wash  out  a  fear  which  blots  the  good 
Your  presence  brings  me.  Oft  I ’m  pierced  afresh 
Through  all  the  pressure  of  my  selfish  griefs 
By  thought  of  you.  It  was  a  rash  resolve 
Made  you  disclose  yourself  when  you  kept  watch 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


199 


About  the  terrace  wall :  —  your  pity  leaped 
Seeing  my  ills  alone  and  not  your  loss, 

Self-doomed  to  exile.  Juan,  you  must  repent. 

’T  is  not  in  nature  that  resolve,  which  feeds 
On  strenuous  actions,  should  not  pine  and  die 
In  these  long  days  of  empty  listlessness. 

Juan. 

Repent  ?  Not  I.  Repentance  is  the  weight 
Of  indigested  meals  eat  yesterday. 

’T  is  for  large  animals  that  gorge  on  prey, 

Not  for  a  honey-sipping  butterfly. 

I  am  a  thing  of  rhythm  and  redondillas,  — 

The  momentary  rainbow  on  the  spray 

Made  by  the  thundering  torrent  of  men’s  lives : 

No  matter  whether  I  am  here  or  there  ; 

I  still  catch  sunbeams.  And  in  Africa, 

Where  melons  and  all  fruits,  they  say,  grow  large. 
Fables  are  real,  and  the  apes  polite, 

A  poet,  too,  may  prosper  past  belief : 

I  shall  grow  epic,  lit  e  the  Florentine, 

And  sing  the  founding  of  our  infant  state, 

Sing  the  Zincalo’s  Carthage. 

Fed  alma. 

Africa ! 

Would  we  were  there  !  Under  another  heaven, 

In  lands  where  neither  love  nor  memory 
Can  plant  a  selfish  hope,  —  in  lands  so  far 
I  should  not  seem  to  see  the  outstretched  arms 
That  seek  me,  or  to  hear  the  voice  that  calls. 

I  should  feel  distance  only  and  despair ; 

So  rest  forever  from  the  thought  of  bliss, 

And  wear  my  weight  of  life’s  great  chain  unstruggliug 
Juan,  if  I  could  know  he  would  forget, — 


200 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Nay,  not  forget,  forgive  me,  —  be  content 
That  I  forsook  him  for  no  joy,  but  sorrow ; 

For  sorrow  chosen  rather  than  a  joy 

That  destiny  made  base  !  Then  he  would  taste 

No  bitterness  in  sweet,  sad  memory, 

And  I  should  live  unblemished  in  his  thought, 
Hallowed  like  her  who  dies  an  unwed  bride. 

Our  words  have  wings,  but  fly  not  where  we  would. 
Gould  mine  but  reach  him,  Juan ! 

Juan. 

Speak  but  the  wish, 

My  feet  have  wings,  —  I  ’ll  be  your  Mercury. 

I  fear  no  shadowed  perils  by  the  way. 

No  man  will  wear  the  sharpness  of  his  sword 
On  me.  Nay,  I ’m  a  herald  of  the  Muse, 

Sacred  for  Moors  and  Spaniards.  I  will  go,  — 

Will  fetch  you  tidings  for  an  amulet. 

But  stretch  not  hope  too  strongly  towards  that  mark 
As  issue  of  my  wandering.  Given,  I  cross 
Safely  the  Moorish  border,  reach  Bedmar  : 

Fresh  counsels  may  prevail  there,  and  the  Duke 
Being  absent  in  the  field,  I  may  be  trapped. 

Men  who  are  sour  at  missing  larger  game 
May  wing  a  chattering  sparrow  for  revenge. 

It  is  a  chance  no  further  worth  the  note 
Than  as  a  warning,  lest  you  feared  worse  ill 
If  my  return  were  stayed.  I  might  be  caged ; 

They  would  not  harm  me  else.  Untimely  death, 

The  red  auxiliary  of  the  skeleton, 

Has  too  much  work  on  hand  to  think  of  me  ; 

Or,  if  he  cares  to  slay  me,  I  shall  fall 
Choked  with  a  grape-stone  for  economy. 

The  likelier  chance  is  that  I  go  and  come, 

Bringing  you  comfort  back. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


201 


Fed  alma  (starts  from  her  seat  and  walks  to  a  little 
distance,  standing  a  few  moments  with  her  loach  to¬ 
wards  J u an,  then  she  turns  round  quickly,  and  goes 
towards  him). 

No,  Juan,  no ! 

Those  yearning  words  come  from  a  soul  infirm, 

Crying  and  struggling  at  the  pain  of  bonds 
Which  yet  it  would  not  loosen.  He  knows  all,  - — 

All  that  he  needs  to  know :  I  said  farewell : 

I  stepped  across  the  cracking  earth  and  knew 
’T  would  yawn  behind  me.  I  must  walk  right  on. 

No,  Juan,  I  will  win  naught  by  risking  you  : 

The  possible  loss  would  poison  hope.  Besides, 

?T  were  treachery  in  me  :  my  father  wills 

That  we  —  all  here  —  should  rest  within  this  camp. 

If  I  can  never  live,  like  him,  on  faith 
In  glorious  morrows,  I  am  resolute. 

While  he  treads  painfully  with  stillest  step 

And  beady  brow,  pressed  hieath  the  weight  of  arms, 

Shall  I,  to  ease  my  fevered  restlessness, 

Raise  peevish  moans,  shattering  that  fragile  silence  ? 
No !  On  the  close-thronged  spaces  of  the  earth 
A  battle  rages  :  Fate  has  carried  me 
JMid  the  thick  arrows  :  I  will  keep  my  stand,  — 

Not  shrink  and  let  the  shaft  pass  by  my  breast 
To  pierce  another.  Oh,  ’t  is  written  large 
The  thing  I  have  to  do.  But  you,  dear  Juan, 
Renounce,  endure,  are  brave,  unurged  by  aught 
Save  the  sweet  overflow  of  your  good  will. 

(She  seats  herself  again.') 

Juan. 

Nay,  I  endure  naught  worse  than  napping  sheep, 

When  nimble  birds  uproot  a  fleecy  lock 

To  line  their  nest  with.  See  !  your  bondsman,  Queen, 


202 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  minstrel  of  your  court,  is  featherless  ; 

Deforms  your  presence  by  a  moulting  garb ; 

Shows  like  a  roadside  bush  culled  of  its  buds. 

Yet,  if  your  graciousness  will  not  disdain 
A  poor  plucked  songster,  —  shall  he  sing  to  you  ? 

Some  lay  of  afternoons,  —  some  ballad  strain 
Of  those  who  ached  once  but  are  sleeping  now 
Under  the  sun-warmed  flowers  ?  ’T  will  cheat  the  time. 

Fed  alma. 

Thanks,  Juan,  later,  when  this  hour  is  passed. 

My  soul  is  clogged  with  self ;  it  could  not  float 
On  with  the  pleasing  sadness  of  your  song. 

Leave  me  in  this  green  spot,  but  come  again,  — 

Come  with  the  lengthening  shadows. 

Juan. 

Then  your  slave 

Will  go  to  chase  the  robbers.  Queen,  farewell ! 

Fedalma. 

Best  friend,  my  well-spring  in  the  wilderness  i 

[While  Juan  sped  along  the  stream,  there  came 
From  the  dark  tents  a  ringing  joyous  shout 
That  thrilled  Fedalma  with  a  summons  grave 
Yet  welcome  too.  Straightway  she  rose  and  stood, 

All  languor  banished,  with  a  soul  suspense, 

Like  one  who  waits  high  presence,  listening. 

Was  it  a  message,  or  her  father’s  self 
That  made  the  camp  so  glad  ? 

It  was  himself ! 

She  saw  him  now  advancing,  girt  with  arms 

That  seemed  like  idle  trophies  hung  for  show 

Beside  the  weight  and  fire  of  living  strength 

That  made  his  frame.  He  glanced  with  absent  triumph. 

As  one  who  conquers  in  some  field  afar 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


203 


And  bears  off  unseen  spoil.  But  nearing  her, 

His  terrible  eyes  intense  sent  forth,  new  rays,— 

A  sudden  sunshine  where  the  lightning  was 
’Twixt  meeting  dark.  All  tenderly  he  laid 
His  hand  upon  her  shoulder ;  tenderly, 

His  kiss  upon  her  brow.] 

Zarca. 

My  royal  daughter ! 

Fed  alma. 

Father,  I  joy  to  see  your  safe  return. 

Zarca. 

Nay,  I  but  stole  the  time,  as  hungry  men 
Steal  from  the  morrow’s  meal,  made  a  forced  march, 
Left  Hassan  as  my  watch-dog,  all  to  see 
My  daughter,  and  to  feed  her  famished  hope 
With  news  of  promise. 

Fedalma. 

Is  the  task  achieved 
That  was  to  be  the  herald  of  our  flight  ? 

Zarca. 

Not  outwardly,  but  to  my  inward  vision 
Things  are  achieved  when  they  are  well  begun. 

The  perfect  archer  calls  the  deer  his  own 
While  yet  the  shaft  is  whistling.  His  keen  eye 
Never  sees  failure,  sees  the  mark  alone. 

You  have  heard  naught,  then,  —  had  no  messenger  ? 

Fedalma. 

I,  father  ?  no  :  each  quiet  day  has  fled 
Like  the  same  moth,  returning  with  slow  wing, 

And  pausing  in  the  sunshine. 

Zarca. 

It  is  well. 

You  shall  not  long  count  days  in  weariness. 


204 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


iCre  the  full  moon  has  waned  again  to  new, 

We  shall  reach  Almerla  :  Berber  ships 
Will  take  us  for  their  freight,  and  we  shall  go 
With  plenteous  spoil,  not  stolen,  bravely  won 
By  service  done  on  Spaniards.  Bo  you  shrink  ? 

Are  you  aught  less  than  a  Zincala  ? 

Fed  alma. 

No; 

But  I  am  more.  The  Spaniards  fostered  me. 

Zarca. 

They  stole  you  first,  and  reared  you  for  the  flames. 

I  found  you,  rescued  you,  that  you  might  live 
A  true  Zincala’s  life ;  else  you  were  doomed. 

Your  bridal  bed  had  been  the  rack. 

Fed  alma  (in  a  low  tone). 

They  meant  — * 

To  seize  me  ?  —  ere  he  came  ? 

Zarca. 

Yes,  I  know  all. 

They  found  your  chamber  empty. 

Fedalma  (eagerly). 

Then  you  know,  — 

(  Checking  herself. ) 

Father,  my  soul  would  be  less  laggard,  fed 
With  fuller  trust. 

Zarca. 

My  daughter,  I  must  keep 
The  Arab’s  secret.  Arabs  are  our  friends, 

Grappling  for  life  with  Christians  who  lay  waste 
Granada’s  valleys,  and  with  devilish  hoofs 
Trample  the  young  green  corn,  with  devilish  play 
Fell  blossomed  trees,  and  tear  up  well-pruned  vines : 
Cruel  as  tigers  to  the  vanquished  brave, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


205 


They  wring  out  gold  by  oaths  they  mean  to  break ; 
Take  pay  for  pity  and  are  pitiless ; 

Then  tinkle  bells  above  the  desolate  earth, 

And  praise  their  monstrous  gods,  supposed  to  love 

The  flattery  of  liars.  I  will  strike 

The  full-gorged  dragon.  You,  my  child,  must  watch 

The  battle  with  a  heart,  not  fluttering 

Hut  duteous,  firm-weighted  by  resolve, 

Choosing  between  two  lives,  like  her  who  holds 
A  dagger  which  must  pierce  one  of  two  breasts, 

And  one  of  them  her  father’s.  Nay,  you  divine,  - 
I  speak  not  closely,  but  in  parables ; 

Put  one  for  many. 

Fedalma  ( collecting  herself J  and  looking  firmly  at 

Zarca). 

Then  it  is  your  will 

That  I  ask  nothing  ? 

Zarca. 

You  shall  know  enough 
To  trace  the  sequence  of  the  seed  and  flower. 

El  Zagal  trusts  me,  rates  my  counsel  high : 

He,  knowing  I  have  won  a  grant  of  lands 
Within  the  Berber’s  realm,  wills  me  to  be 
The  tongue  of  his  good  cause  in  Africa, 

So  gives  us  furtherance  in  our  pilgrimage 
For  service  hoped,  as  well  as  service  done 
In  that  great  feat  of  which  I  am  the  eye, 

And  my  three  hundred  Gypsies  the  best  arm. 

More,  I  am  charged  by  other  noble  Moors 
With  messages  of  weight  to  Telemsan. 

Ha,  your  eye  flashes.  Are  you  glad  ? 

Fedalma. 

Yes,  glad 

That  men  are  forced  to  honor  a  Zincalo. 


206 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Zarca. 

Oh  fighting  for  dear  life  men  choose  their  swords 
For  cutting  only,  not  for  ornament. 

What  naught  but  Nature  gives,  man  takes  perforce 
Where  she  bestows  it,  though  in  vilest  place. 

Can  he  compress  invention  out  of  pride, 

Make  heirship  do  the  work  of  muscle,  sail 
Towards  great  discoveries  with  a  pedigree  ? 

Sick  men  ask  cures,  and  Nature  serves  not  hers 
Daintily  as  a  feast.  A  blacksmith  once 
Founded  a  dynasty  and  raised  on  high 
The  leathern  apron  over  armies  spread 
Between  the  mountains  like  a  lake  of  steel. 

Fed  alma  ( bitterly ). 

To  be  contemned,  then,  is  fair  augury. 

That  pledge  of  future  good  at  least  is  ours. 

Zarca. 

Let  men  contemn  us  :  ’t  is  such  blind  contempt 
That  leaves  the  winged  broods  to  thrive  in  warmth 
Unheeded,  till  they  fill  the  air  like  storms. 

So  we  shall  thrive,  —  still  darkly  shall  draw  force 
Into  a  new  and  multitudinous  life 
That  likeness  fashions  to  community, 

Mother  divine  of  customs,  faith,  and  laws. 

’T  is  ripeness,  ’t  is  fame’s  zenith  that  kills  hope. 
Huge  oaks  are  dying,  forests  yet  to  come 
Lie  in  the  twigs  and  rotten-seeming  seeds. 

Fedalma. 

And  our  Zincali  ?  Under  their  poor  husk 
Do  you  discern  such  seed  ?  You  said  our  band 
Was  the  best  arm  of  some  hard  enterprise; 

They  give  out  sparks  of  virtue,  then,  and  show 
There ’s  metal  in  their  earth  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


207 


Zarca. 

Ay,  metal  fine 

In  my  brave  Gypsies.  Not  the  lithest  Moor 
Has  lither  limbs  for  scaling,  keener  eye 
To  mark  the  meaning  of  the  farthest  speck 
That  tells  of  change  ;  and  they  are  disciplined 
By  faith  in  me,  to  such  obedience 
As  needs  no  spy.  My  scalers  and  my  scouts 
Are  to  the  Moorish  force  they  ’re  leagued  withal 
As  bow-string  to  the  bow  ;  while  I  their  chief 
Command  the  enterprise  and  guide  the  will 
Of  Moorish  captains,  as  the  pilot  guides 
With  eye-instructed  hand  the  passive  helm. 

For  high  device  is  still  the  highest  force, 

And  he  who  holds  the  secret  of  the  wheel 
May  make  the  rivers  do  what  work  he  would. 

With  thoughts  impalpable  we  clutch  men’s  souls, 
Weaken  the  joints  of  armies,  make  them  fly 
Like  dust  and  leaves  before  the  viewless  wind. 

Tell  me  what ’s  mirrored  in  the  tiger’s  heart, 

I  ’ll  rule  that  too. 

Fed  alma  ( wrought  to  a  glow  of  admiration). 

0  my  imperial  father  ! 

’T  is  where  there  breathes  a  mighty  soul  like  yours 
That  men’s  contempt  is  of  good  augury. 

Zarca  ( seizing  both  Fedalma’s  hands,  and  looking 

at  her  searchingly). 

And  you,  my  daughter,  are  you  not  the  child 
Of  the  Zincalo  ?  Does  not  his  great  hope 
Thrill  in  your  veins  like  shouts  of  victory  ? 

’T  is  a  vile  life  that  like  a  garden  pool 
Lies  stagnant  in  the  round  of  personal  lores; 

That  has  no  ear  save  for  the  tickling  lute 


208 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Set  to  small  measures,  —  deaf  to  all  the  beats 
Of  that  large  music  rolling  o’er  the  world : 

A  miserable,  petty,  low-roofed  life, 

That  knows  the  mighty  orbits  of  the  skies 
Through  naught  save  light  or  dark  in  its  own  cabin. 

The  very  brutes  will  feel  the  force  of  kind 
And  move  together,  gathering  a  new  soul,  — 

The  soul  of  multitudes.  Say  now,  my  child, 

You  will  not  falter,  not  look  back  and  long 
For  unfledged  ease  in  some  soft  alien  nest. 

The  crane  with  outspread  wing  that  heads  the  file 
Pauses  not,  feels  no  backward  impulses : 

Behind  it  summer  was,  and  is  no  more  ; 

Before  it  lies  the  summer  it  will  reach 
Or  fall  in  the  mid-ocean.  And  you  no  less 
Must  feel  the  force  sublime  of  growing  life. 

New  thoughts  are  urgent  as  the  growth  of  wings  ; 

The  widening  vision  is  imperious 

As  higher  members  bursting  the  worm’s  sheath. 

You  cannot  grovel  in  the  worm’s  delights: 

You  must  take  winged  pleasures,  winged  pains. 

Are  you  not  steadfast  ?  Will  you  live  or  die 
For  aught  below  your  royal  heritage  ? 

To  him  who  holds  the  flickering  brief  torch 
That  lights  a  beacon  for  the  perishing, 

Aught  else  is  crime.  Are  you  a  false  Zincala? 

Fed  alma. 

Father,  my  soul  is  weak,  the  mist  of  tears 

Still  rises  to  my  eyes,  and  hides  the  goal 

Which  to  your  undimmed  sight  is  clear  and  changeless* 

But  if  I  cannot  plant  resolve  on  hope 

It  will  stand  firm  on  certainty  of  woe. 

I  choose  the  ill  that  is  most  like  to  end 

With  my  poor  being  Hopes  have  precarious  life. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSA. 


209 


They  are  oft  blighted,  withered,  snapped  sheer  off 
In  vigorous  growth  and  turned  to  rottenness. 

But  faithfulness  can  feed  on  suffering, 

And  knows  no  disappointment.  Trust  in  me ! 

If  it  were  needed,  this  poor  trembling  hand 
Should  grasp  the  torch,  —  strive  not  to  let  it  fall 
Though  it  were  burning  down  close  to  my  flesh, 
No  beacon  lighted  yet :  through  the  damp  dark 
I  should  still  hear  the  cry  of  gasping  swimmers. 
Father,  I  will  be  true  ! 


Zarca. 

I  trust  that  word. 

And,  for  your  sadness,  — you  are  young,  —  the  bruiso 
Will  leave  no  mark.  The  worst  of  misery 
Is  when  a  nature  framed  for  noblest  things 
Condemns  itself  in  youth  to  petty  joys, 

And,  sore  athirst  for  air,  breathes  scanty  life 
Gasping  from  out  the  shallows.  You  are  saved 
From  such  poor  doubleness.  The  life  we  choose 
Breathes  high,  and  sees  a  full-arched  firmament. 

Our  deeds  shall  speak  like  rock-hewn  messages, 
Teaching  great  purpose  to  the  distant  time. 

Now  I  must  hasten  back.  I  shall  but  speak 
To  Nadar  of  the  order  he  must  keep 
In  setting  watch  and  victualling.  The  stars 
And  the  young  moon  must  see  me  at  my  post. 

Nay,  rest  you  here.  Farewell,  my  younger  self, — 
Strong-hearted  daughter  !  Shall  I  live  in  you 
When  the  earth  covers  me  ? 

Fed  alma. 

My  father,  death 

Should  give  your  will  divineness,  make  it  strong 
W  ith  the  beseechings  of  a  mighty  soul 

14 


210 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


That  left  its  work  unfinished.  Kiss  me  now : 

(  They  embrace ,  and  she  adds  tremulously  as  they  part,) 
And  when  you  see  fair  hair  be  pitiful.  ( Exit  Zarca.) 

(Fedalma  seats  herself  on  the  bank ,  leans  her  head 
forward ,  and  covers  her  face  with  her  drapery. 
While  she  is  seated  thus,  Hinda  comes  from  the 
bank,  with  a  branch  of  musk  roses  in  her  hand. 
Seeing  Fedalma  with  head  bent  and  covered , 
she  pauses,  and  begins  to  move  on  tiptoe.) 


Hinda. 

Our  Queen  !  Can  she  be  crying  ?  There  she  sits 
As  I  did  every  day  when  my  dog  Saad 
Sickened  and  yelled,  and  seemed  to  yell  so  loud 
After  we  ’d  buried  him,  I  oped  his  grave. 

(She  comes  forward  on  tiptoe,  kneels  at  Fed  alma’s 
feet,  and  embraces  them.  Fedalma  uncovers  her 
head.) 

Fedalma. 

Hinda !  what  is  it  ? 

Hinda. 


Queen,  a  branch  of  roses,  — 

So  sweet,  you  ’ll  love  to  smell  them.  ’T  was  the  last. 

I  climbed  the  bank  to  get  it  before  Tralla, 

And  slipped  and  scratched  my  arm.  But  I  don’t  mind. 
You  love  the  roses,  —  so  do  I.  I  wish 
The  sky  would  rain  down  roses,  as  they  rain 
From  off  the  shaken  bush.  Why  will  it  not  ? 

Then  all  the  valley  would  be  pink  and  white 
And  soft  to  tread  on.  They  would  fall  as  light 
As  feathers,  smelling  sweet ;  and  it  would  be 
Like  sleeping  and  yet  waking,  all  at  once ! 

Over  the  sea,  Queen,  where  we  soon  shall  go. 

Will  it  rain  roses  ? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


211 


Fedalma. 

No,  my  prattler,  no ! 

It  never  will  rain  roses  :  when  we  want 
To  have  more  roses  we  must  plant  more  trees. 

But  you  want  nothing,  little  one,  —  the  world 
Just  suits  you  as  it  suits  the  tawny  squirrels. 

Come,  you  want  nothing. 

Hinda. 

Yes,  I  want  more  berries,— 
Bed  ones,  —  to  wind  about  my  neck  and  arms 
When  I  am  married,  —  on  my  ankles  too 
I  want  to  wind  red  berries,  and  on  my  head. 

Fedalma. 

Who  is  it  you  are  fond  of  ?  Tell  me,  now. 

Hinda. 

0  Queen,  you  know !  It  could  be  no  one  else 
But  Ismael.  He  catches  birds,  —  no  end  ! 

Knows  where  the  speckled  fish  are,  scales  the  rocks, 
And  sings  and  dances  with  me  when  I  like. 

How  should  I  marry  and  not  marry  him  ? 

Fedalma. 

Should  you  have  loved  him,  had  he  been  a  Moor, 

Or  white  Castilian  ? 

Hinda  ( starting  to  her  feet ,  then  kneeling  again). 

Are  you  angry,  Queen  ? 

Say  why  you  will  think  shame  of  your  poor  Hinda  ? 
She ’d  sooner  be  a  rat  and  hang  on  thorns 
To  parch  until  the  wind  had  scattered  her, 

Than  be  an  outcast,  spit  at  by  her  tribe. 

Fedalma. 

Hinda,  I  know  you  are  a  good  Zincala. 

But  would  you  part  from  Ismael  ?  leave  him  now 


212 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


If  your  chief  bade  you,  —  said  it  was  for  good 
To  all  your  tribe  that  you  must  part  from  him  ? 

Hinda  ( giving  a  sharp  cry). 

Ah,  will  he  say  so  ? 

Fed  alma  (almost  fierce  in  her  earnestness). 

Nay,  child,  answer  me. 

Could  you  leave  Ismael  ?  get  into  a  boat 
And  see  the  waters  widen  ’twixt  you  two 
Till  all  was  water  and  you  saw  him  not, 

And  knew  that  you  would  never  see  him  more  ? 

If ’t  was  your  chief’s  command,  and  if  he  said 
Your  tribe  would  all  be  slaughtered,  die  of  plague, 
Of  famine,  —  madly  drink  each  other’s  blood  .... 

Hinda  (trembling). 

0  Queen,  if  it  is  so,  tell  Ismael. 

Fedalma. 

You  would  obey,  then  ?  part  from  him  forever  ? 

Hinda. 

How  could  we  live  else  ?  vfith  our  brethren  lost  ? 
No  marriage  feast  ?  The  day  would  turn  to  dark. 
Zincali  cannot  live  without  their  tribe. 

I  must  obey  !  Poor  Ismael  —  poor  Hinda ! 

But  will  it  ever  be  so  cold  and  dark  ? 

Oh,  I  would  sit  upon  the  rocks  and  cry, 

And  cry  so  long  that  I  could  cry  no  more  : 

Then  I  should  go  to  sleep. 

Fedalma. 

No,  Hinda,  no ! 

Thou  never  shalt  be  called  to  part  from  him- 
I  will  have  berries  for  thee,  red  and  black, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


213 


And  I  will  be  so  glad  to  see  thee  glad, 

That  earth  will  seem  to  hold  enough  of  joy 
To  outweigh  all  the  pangs  of  those  who  part. 

Be  comforted,  bright  eyes.  See,  I  will  tie 
These  roses  in  a  crown,  for  thee  to  wear. 

Hind  A  (clapping  her  hands ,  while  Fed  alma  puts  the 

roses  on  her  head). 

Oh,  I  ?m  as  glad  as  many  little  foxes,  — 

I  will  find  Ismael,  and  tell  him  all.  (She  inins  off.) 

Fedalma  (alone). 

She  has  the  strength  I  lack.  Within  her  world 
The  dial  has  not  stirred  since  first  she  woke : 

No  changing  light  has  made  the  shadows  die, 

And  taught  her  trusting  soul  sad  difference. 

For  her,  good,  right,  and  law  are  all  summed  up 
In  what  is  possible  ;  life  is  one  web 
Where  love,  joy,  kindred,  and  obedience 
Lie  fast  and  even,  in  one  warp  and  woof 
With  thirst  and  drinking,  hunger,  food,  and  sleep, 
She  knows  no  struggles,  sees  no  double  path : 

Her  fate  is  freedom,  for  her  will  is  one 

With  the  Zincalo’s  law,  the  only  law 

She  ever  knew.  For  me  —  oh,  I  have  fire  within, 

But  on  my  will  there  falls  the  chilling  snow 

Of  thoughts  that  come  as  subtly  as  soft  flakes, 

Yet  press  at  last  with  hard  and  icy  weight. 

I  could  be  firm,  could  give  myself  the  wrench 
And  walk  erect,  hiding  my  life-long  wound, 

If  I  but  saw  the  fruit  of  all  my  pain 

With  that  strong  vision  which  commands  the  soul, 

And  makes  great  awe  the  monarch  of  desire. 

But  now  I  totter,  seeing  no  far  goal : 

I  tread  the  rocky  pass,  and  pause  and  grasp, 


214 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Guided  by  flashes.  When  my  father  comes, 

And  breathes  into  my  soul  his  generous  hope,  — 

P>y  his  own  greatness  making  life  seem  great, 

As  the  clear  heavens  bring  sublimity, 

And  show  earth  larger,  spanned  by  that  blue  vast,  — 
Resolve  is  strong  :  I  can  embrace  my  sorrow, 

Nor  nicely  weigh  the  fruit ;  possessed  with  need 
Solely  to  do  the  noblest,  though  it  failed,  — 

Though  lava  streamed  upon  my  breathing  deed 
And  buried  it  in  night  and  barrenness. 

But  soon  the  glow  dies  out,  the  warrior’s  music 
That  vibrated  as  strength  through  all  my  limbs 
Is  heard  no  longer ;  over  the  wide  scene 
There ’s  naught  but  chill  gray  silence,  or  the  hum 
And  fitful  discord  of  a  vulgar  world. 

Then  I  sink  helpless,  —  sink  into  the  arms 
Of  all  sweet  memories,  and  dream  of  bliss  : 

See  looks  that  penetrate  like  tones  ;  hear  tones 
That  flash  looks  with  them.  Even  now  I  feel 
Soft  airs  enwrap  me,  as  if  yearning  rays 
Of  some  far  presence  touched  me  with  their  warmth 
And  brought  a  tender  murmuring . 


[While  she  muse 

A  figure  came  from  out  the  olive-trees 
That  bent  close-whispering  ’twixt  the  parted  hills 
Beyond  the  crescent  of  thick  cactus  :  paused 
At  sight  of  her ;  then  slowly  forward  moved 
With  careful  step,  and  gently  said,  “  Fed  alma  \” 
Fearing  lest  fancy  had  enslaved  her  sense, 

She  quivered,  rose,  but  turned  not.  Soon  again : 

“  Fedalma,  it  is  Silva  !  ”  Then  she  turned. 

He,  with  bared  head  and  arms  entreating,  beamed 
Like  morning  on  her.  Vision  held  her  still 
One  moment,  then  with  gliding  motion  swift. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


215 


Inevitable  as  the  melting  stream’s, 

She  found  her  rest  within  his  circling  arms.] 

Fed  alma. 

O  love,  you  are  living,  and  believe  in  me  I 

Don  Silva. 

Once  more  we  are  together.  Wishing  dies,  — 
Stifled  with  bliss. 

Fedalma. 

You  did  not  hate  me,  then,  — 
Think  me  an  ingrate,  —  think  my  love  was  small 
That  I  forsook  you  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Dear,  I  trusted  you 

As  holy  men  trust  God.  You  could  do  naught 
That  was  not  pure  and  loving,  —  though  the  deed 
Might  pierce  me  unto  death.  You  had  less  trust, 
Since  you  suspected  mine.  ’T  was  wicked  doubt. 

Fedalma. 

Nay,  when  I  saw  you  hating  me  the  fault 
Seemed  in  my  lot,  —  the  poor  Zincala’s,  —  her 
On  whom  you  lavished  all  your  wealth  of  love 
As  price  of  naught  but  sorrow.  Then  I  said, 
u  ’T  is  better  so.  He  will  be  happier  !  ” 

But  soon  that  thought,  struggling  to  be  a  hope^ 
Would  end  in  tears. 

Don  Silva. 

It  was  a  cruel  thought. 
Happier !  True  misery  is  not  begun 
Until  I  cease  to  love  thee. 

Fedalma. 

Silva  I 


216 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Don  Silya. 

Mine  ! 

( They  stand  a  moment  or  two  in  silence .) 
Fed  alma. 

I  thought  I  had  so  much  to  tell  you,  love,  — 

Long  eloquent  stories,  —  how  it  all  befell,  — 

The  solemn  message,  calling  me  away 
To  awful  spousals,  where  my  own  dead  joy, 

A  conscious  ghost,  looked  on  and  saw  me  wed. 

Don  Silya. 

Oh  that  grave  speech  would  cumber  our  quick  souls 
Like  bells  that  waste  the  moments  with  their  loudness. 

Fed  alma. 

And  if  it  all  were  said,  ’t  would  end  in  this, 

That  I  still  loved  you  wThen  I  fled  away. 

’T  is  no  more  wisdom  than  the  little  birds 
Make  known  by  their  soft  twitter  when  they  feel 
Each  other’s  heart  beat. 

Don  Silva. 

All  the  deepest  things 

We  now  say  with  our  eyes  and  meeting  pulse : 

Our  voices  need  but  prattle. 

Fed  alma. 

I  forget 

All  the  drear  days  of  thirst  in  this  one  draught. 

( Again  they  are  silent  for  a  few  moments .) 
But  tell  me  how  you  came  ?  Where  are  your  guards  ? 

Is  there  no  risk  ?  And  now  I  look  at  you, 

This  garb  is  strange  .... 

Don  Silva. 

i  came  alone. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


217 


Fed  alma. 

Alone  ? 

Don  Silya. 

Yes,  —  fled  in  secret.  There  was  no  way  else 
To  find  you  safely. 

Fed  alma  ( letting  one  hand  fall  and  moving  a  little 
from  him  with  a  look  of  sudden  terror ,  while  he 
clasps  her  more  firmly  by  the  other  arm). 

Silva ! 

Don  Silva. 

It  is  naught. 

Enough  that  I  am  here.  Now  we  will  cling. 

What  power  shall  hinder  us  ?  You  left  me  once 
To  set  your  father  free.  That  task  is  done, 

And  you  are  mine  again.  I  have  braved  all 
That  I  might  find  you,  see  your  father,  win 
His  furtherance  in  bearing  you  away 
To  some  safe  refuge.  Are  we  not  betrothed  ? 

Fedalma. 

Oh  I  am  trembling  ’neath  the  rush  of  thoughts 
That  come  like  griefs  at  morning,  —  look  at  me 
With  awful  faces,  from  the  vanishing  haze 
That  momently  had  hidden  them. 


Don  Silva. 


Fedalma. 


What  thoughts  ? 


Forgotten  burials.  There  lies  a  grave 
Between  this  visionary  present  and  the  past. 
Our  joy  is  dead,  and  only  smiles  on  us 
A  loving  shade  from  out  the  place  of  tombs. 


218 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Don  Silva. 

Fe^alma,  your  love  faints,  else  aught  that  parts  ua 
Would  seem  but  superstition.  Love  supreme 
Defies  all  sophistry,  —  risks  avenging  fires. 

7  Vave  risked  all  things.  But  your  love  is  faint. 

>'edalma  ( retreating  a  little ,  but  keeping  his  hand)* 

Silva,  if  now  between  us  came  a  sword, 

Severed  my  arm,  and  left  our  two  hands  clasped, 

This  poor  maimed  arm  would  feel  the  clasp  till  death. 
What  parts  us  is  a  sword  .... 

(Zarca  has  been  advancing  in  the  background . 
He  has  drawn  his  sword ,  and  now  thrusts  the 
naked  blade  between  them.  Silva  lets  go 
Fedalma’s  hand ,  and  grasps  his  sword.  Fe- 
dalma,  startled  at  first,  stands  firmly ,  as  if 
prepared  to  interpose  between  her  father  and 
the  Duke) 

Zarca. 

Ay,  ?t  is  a  sword 

That  parts  the  Spanish  noble  and  the  true  Zincala : 

A  sword  that  was  baptized  in  Christian  blood, 

When  once  a  band,  cloaking  with  Spanish  law 
Their  brutal  rapine,  would  have  butchered  us. 

And  then  outraged  our  women. 

(Resting  the  point  of  his  sword  on  the  ground.) 

My  lord  Duke, 

I  was  a  guest  within  your  fortress  once 
Against  my  will ;  had  entertainment  too,  — 

Much  like  a  galley  slave’s.  Pray,  have  you  sought 
The  poor  Zincalo’s  camp,  to  find  return 
For  that  Castilian  courtesy  ?  or  rather 
To  make  amends  for  all  our  prisoned  toil 
By  this  great  honor  of  your  unasked  presence? 


“  Ay,  ’t  is  a  sword 

That  parts  the  Spanish  noble  and  the  true  Zincala.” 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


219 


I 

Don  Silya. 

Chief,  I  have  brought  no  scorn  to  meet  your  scorn. 

I  came  because  love  urged  me,  —  that  deep  love 
I  bear  to  her  whom  you  call  daughter,  —  her 
Whom  I  reclaim  as  my  betrothed  bride. 

Zarca. 

Doubtless  you  bring  for  final  argument 
Your  men-at-arms  who  will  escort  your  bride  Y 

Don  Silva. 

I  came  alone.  The  only  force  I  bring 
Is  tenderness.  Nay,  I  will  trust  besides 
In  all  the  pleadings  of  a  father’s  care 
To  wed  his  daughter  as  her  nurture  bids. 

And  for  your  tribe,  —  whatever  purposed  good 
Your  thoughts  may  cherish,  I  will  make  secure 
With  the  strong  surety  of  a  noble’s  power  : 

My  wealth  shall  be  your  treasury. 

Zarca  (with  irony). 

My  thanks ! 

To  me  you  offer  liberal  price  ;  for  her 
Your  love’s  beseeching  will  be  force  supreme. 

She  will  go  with  you  as  a  willing  slave, 

Will  give  a  word  of  parting  to  her  father, 

Wave  farewells  to  her  tribe,  then  turn  and  say: 

“Now,  my  lord,  I  am  nothing  but  your  bride ; 

I  am  quite  culled,  >ave  neither  root  nor  trunk, 

Now  wear  me  with  your  plume  !  ” 

Don  Silva. 

Yours  is  the  wrong 

Feigning  in  me  one  thought  of  her  below 
The  highest  homage.  I  would  make  my  rank 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  pedestal  of  her  worth  ;  a  noble’s  sword, 

A  noble’s  honor,  her  defence ;  his  love 
The  life-long  sanctuary  of  her  womanhood. 

Zarca. 

I  tell  you,  were  you  King  of  Aragon, 

And  won  my  daughter’s  hand,  your  higher  rank 
Would  blacken  her  dishonor.  ’T  were  excuse 
If  you  were  beggared,  homeless,  spit  upon, 

And  so  made  even  with  her  people’s  lot ; 

For  then  she  would  be  lured  by  want,  not  wealth, 
To  be  a  wife  amongst  an  alien  race 
To  whom  her  tribe  owes  curses. 

Don  Silva. 

Such  blind  hate 

Is  fit  for  beasts  of  prey,  but  not  for  men. 

My  hostile  acts  against  you  should  but  count 
As  ignorant  strokes  against  a  friend  unknown ; 
And  for  the  wrongs  inflicted  on  your  tribe 
By  Spanish  edicts  or  the  cruelty 
Of  Spanish  vassals,  am  I  criminal  ? 

Love  comes  to  cancel  all  ancestral  hate, 

Subdues  all  heritage,  proves  that  in  mankind 
Union  is  deeper  than  division. 

Zarca. 

Ay» 

Such  love  is  common :  I  have  seen  it  oft,  — 

Seen  many  women  rend  the  sacred  ties 
That  bind  them  in  high  fellowship  with  men, 
Making  them  mothers  of  a  people’s  virtue ; 

Seen  them  so  levelled  to  a  handsome  steed 
That  yesterday  was  Moorish  property, 

To-day  is  Christian,  —  wears  new-fashioned  gear, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


221 


Neighs  to  new  feeders,  and  will  prance  alike 
Under  all  banners,  so  the  banner  be 
A  master’s  who  caresses.  Such  light  change 
You  call  conversion ;  we  Zincali  call 
Conversion  infamy.  Our  people’s  faith 
Is  faithfulness  ;  not  the  rote-learned  belief 
That  we  are  heaven’s  highest  favorites, 

But  the  resolve  that,  being  most  forsaken 
Among  the  sons  of  men,  we  will  be  true 
Each  to  the  other,  and  our  common  lot. 

You  Christians  burn  men  for  their  heresy  : 

Our  vilest  heretic  is  that  Zincala 
Who,  choosing  ease,  forsakes  her  people’s  woes. 
The  dowry  of  my  daughter  is  to  be 
Chief  woman  of  her  tribe,  and  rescue  it. 

A  bride  with  such  a  dowry  has  no  match 
Among  the  subjects  of  that  Catholic  Queen 
Who  would  have  Gypsies  swept  into  the  sea 
Or  else  would  have  them  gibbeted. 

Don  Silva. 

And  you, 

Fedalma’s  father, — you  who  claim  the  dues 
Of  fatherhood,  —  will  offer  up  her  youth 
To  mere  grim  idols  of  your  fantasy  ! 

Worse  than  all  Pagans,  with  no  oracle 
To  bid  you  murder,  no  sure  good  to  win, 

Will  sacrifice  your  daughter,  — to  no  god, 

But  to  a  hungry  fire  within  your  soul, 

Mad  hopes,  blind  hate,  that  like  possessing  fiends 
Shriek  at  a  name !  This  sweetest  virgin,  reared 
As  garden  flowers,  to  give  the  sordid  world 
Glimpses  of  perfectness,  you  snatch  and  thrust 
On  dreary  wilds ;  in  visions  mad,  proclaim 
Semiramis  of  Gypsy  wanderers  ; 


222 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Doom,  with  a  broken  arrow  in  her  heart, 

To  wait  for  death  ’mid  squalid  savages  : 

For  what  ?  You  would  be  savior  of  your  tribe? 

So  said  Fedalma’s  letter  ;  rather  say, 

You  have  the  will  to  save  by  ruling  men, 

But  first  to  rule ;  and  with  that  flinty  will 
You  cut  your  way,  though  the  first  cut  you  give 
Gash  your  child’s  bosom. 

( While  Silva  has  been  speaking,  with  growing 
passion,  Fed  alma  has  placed  herself  between 
him  and  her  father.) 

Zarca  ( with  calm  irony). 

You  are  loud,  my  lord  1 
You  only  are  the  reasonable  man ; 

You  have  a  heart,  I  none.  Fedalma’s  good 
Is  what  you  see,  you  care  for ;  while  I  seek 
No  good,  not  even  my  own,  urged  on  by  naught 
But  hellish  hunger,  which  must  still  be  fed 
Though  in  the  feeding  it  I  suffer  throes. 

Fume  at  your  own  opinion  as  you  will : 

I  speak  not  now  to  you,  but  to  my  daughter. 

If  she  still  calls  it  good  to  mate  with  you, 

To  be  a  Spanish  duchess,  kneel  at  court, 

And  hope  her  beauty  is  excuse  to  men 
When  women  whisper,  “  She  was  a  Zincala ; 99 
If  she  still  calls  it  good  to  take  a  lot 
That  measures  joy  for  her  as  she  forgets 
Her  kindred  and  her  kindred’s  misery, 

Nor  feels  the  softness  of  her  downy  couch 
Marred  by  remembrance  that  she  once  forsook 
The  place  that  she  was  born  to,  —  let  her  go  ! 

If  life  for  her  still  lies  in  alien  love, 

That  forces  her  to  shut  her  soul  from  truth 
As  men  in  shameful  pleasures  shut  out  day  j 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


228 


And  death,  for  her,  is  to  do  rarest  deeds, 

Which,  even  failing,  leave  new  faith  to  men, 

The  faith  in  human  hearts,  —  then,  let  her  go  ! 

She  is  my  only  offspring ;  in  her  veins 
She  bears  the  blood  her  tribe  has  trusted  in ; 

Her  heritage  is  their  obedience, 

And  if  I  died,  she  might  still  lead  them  forth 
To  plant  the  race  her  lover  now  reviles 
Where  they  may  make  a  nation,  and  may  rise 
To  grander  manhood  than  his  race  can  show  j 
Then  live  a  goddess,  sanctifying  oaths, 

Enforcing  right,  and  ruling  consciences, 

By  law  deep-graven  in  exalting  deeds, 

Through  the  long  ages  of  her  people’s  life. 

If  she  can  leave  that  lot  for  silken  shame, 

For  kisses  honeyed  by  oblivion,  — 

The  bliss  of  drunkards  or  the  blank  of  fools,  — 
Then  let  her  go  !  You  Spanish  Catholics, 

When  you  are  cruel,  base,  and  treacherous, 

For  ends  not  pious,  tender  gifts  to  God, 

And  for  men’s  wounds  offer  much  oil  to  churches : 
We  have  no  altars  for  such  healing  gifts 
As  soothe  the  heavens  for  outrage  done  on  earth. 
We  have  no  priesthood  and  no  creed  to  teach 
That  the  Zincala  who  might  save  her  race 
And  yet  abandons  it,  may  cleanse  that  blot, 

And  mend  the  curse  her  life  has  been  to  men, 

By  saving  her  own  soul.  Her  one  base  choice 
Is  wrong  unchangeable,  is  poison  shed 
Where  men  must  drink,  shed  by  her  poisoning  will. 
Now  choose,  Fedalma ! 


[But  her  choice  was  made. 
Slowly,  while  yet  her  father  spoke,  she  moved 
From  where  oblique  with  deprecating  arms 


224 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


She  stood  between  the  two  who  swayed  her  heart : 
Slowly  she  moved  to  choose  sublimer  pain ; 

Yearning,  yet  shrinking  ;  wrought  upon  by  awe, 

Her  own  brief  life  seeming  a  little  isle 
Remote  through  visions  of  a  wider  world 
With  fates  close-crowded;  firm  to  slay  her  joy 
That  cut  her  heart  with  smiles  beneath  the  knife, 

Like  a  sweet  babe  foredoomed  by  prophecy. 

She  stood  apart,  yet  near  her  father  :  stood 
Hand  clutching  hand,  her  limbs  all  tense  with  will 
That  strove  against  her  anguish,  eyes  that  seemed  a  soul 
Yearning  in  death  towards  him  she  loved  and  left. 

He  faced  her,  pale  with  passion  and  a  will 
Fierce  to  resist  whatever  might  seem  strong 
And  ask  him  to  submit :  he  saw  one  end,  — 

He  must  be  conqueror  ;  monarch  of  his  lot 
And  not  its  tributary.  But  she  spoke 
Tenderly,  pleadingly.] 


Fed  alma. 

My  lord,  farewell ! 

’T  was  well  we  met  once  more ;  now  we  must  part. 
I  think  we  had  the  chief  of  all  love’s  joys 
Only  in  knowing  that  we  loved  each  other. 

Don  Silva. 

I  thought  we  loved  with  love  that  clings  till  death, 
Clings  as  brute  mothers  bleeding  to  their  young, 
Still  sheltering,  clutching  it,  though  it  were  dead ; 
Taking  the  death-wound  sooner  than  divide. 
i  thought  we  loved  so. 

Fed  alma. 

Silva,  it  is  fate. 

Great  Fate  has  made  me  heiress  of  this  woe. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


225 


You  must  forgive  Fedalma  all  her  debt : 

She  is  quite  beggared :  if  she  gave  herself, 

’T  would  be  a  self  corrupt  with  stifled  thoughts 
Of  a  forsaken  better.  It  is  truth 
My  father  speaks  :  the  Spanish  noble’s  wife 
Would  be  a  false  Zincala.  I  will  bear 
The  heavy  trust  of  my  inheritance. 

See,  ’t  was  my  people’s  life  that  throbbed  in  me  > 
An  unknown  need  stirred  darkly  in  my  soul, 
And  made  me  restless  even  in  my  bliss. 

Oh,  all  my  bliss  was  in  our  love  ;  but  now 
I  may  not  taste  it :  some  deep  energy 
Compels  me  to  choose  hunger.  Dear,  farewell  I 
I  must  go  with  my  people. 


[She  stretched  forth 

Her  tender  hands,  that  oft  had  lain  in  his, 

The  hands  he  knew  so  well,  that  sight  of  them 
Seemed  like  their  touch.  But  he  stood  still  as  death,’ 
Locked  motionless  by  forces  opposite  : 
llis  frustrate  hopes  still  battled  with  despair ; 

His  will  was  prisoner  to  the  double  grasp 
Of  rage  and  hesitancy.  All  the  travelled  way 
Behind  him,  he  had  trodden  confident, 

Ruling  munificently  in  his  thought 

This  Gypsy  father.  Now  the  father  stood 

Present  and  silent  and  unchangeable 

As  a  celestial  portent.  Backward  lay 

The  traversed  road,  the  town’s  forsaken  wall, 

The  risk,  the  daring ;  all  around  him  now 
Was  obstacle,  save  where  the  rising  flood 
Of  love  close  pressed  by  anguish  of  denial 
Was  sweeping  him  resistless ;  save  where  she 
Gazing  stretched  forth  her  tender  hands,  that  hurt 
Like  parting  kisses.  Then  at  last  he  spoke.] 

15 


226 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Don  Silva. 

No,  I  can  never  take  those  hands  in  mine, 

Then  let  them  go  forever  ! 

Fed  alma. 

It  must  be. 

We  may  not  make  this  world  a  paradise 
By  walking  it  together  hand  in  hand, 

With  eyes  that  meeting  feed  a  double  strength. 
We  must  be  only  joined  by  pains  divine 
Of  spirits  blent  in  mutual  memories. 

Silva,  our  joy  is  dead. 

Don  Silva. 

But  love  still  lives, 

And  has  a  safer  guard  in  wretchedness. 
Fedalma,  women  know  no  perfect  love  : 

Loving  the  strong,  they  can  forsake  the  strong ; 
Man  clings  because  the  being  whom  he  loves 
Is  weak  and  needs  him.  I  can  never  turn 
And  leave  you  to  your  difficult  wandering ; 
Know  that  you  tread  the  desert,  bear  the  storm 
Shed  tears,  see  terrors,  faint  with  weariness, 
Yet  live  away  from  you.  I  should  feel  naught 
But  your  imagined  pains :  in  my  own  steps 
See  your  feet  bleeding,  taste  your  silent  tears, 
And  feel  no  presence  but  your  loneliness. 

No,  I  will  never  leave  you ! 

Zarca. 

My  lord  Duke, 

I  have  been  patient,  given  room  for  speech, 
Bent  not  to  move  my  daughter  by  command, 
Save  that  of  her  own  faithfulness.  But  now, 
All  further  words  are  idle  elegies 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


227 


Unfitting  times  of  action.  You  are  here 
With  the  safe  conduct  of  that  trust  you  showed 
Coming  alone  to  the  Zincalo’s  camp. 

I  would  fain  meet  all  trust  with  courtesy 
As  well  as  honor ;  but  my  utmost  power 
Is  to  afford  you  Gypsy  guard  to-night 
Within  the  tents  that  keep  the  northward  lines, 

And  for  the  morrow,  escort  on  your  way 
Back  to  the  Moorish  bounds. 

Don  Silva. 

What  if  my  words 

Were  meant  for  deeds,  decisive  as  a  leap 
Into  the  current  ?  It  is  not  my  wont 
To  utter  hollow  words,  and  speak  resolves 
Like  verses  banded  in  a  madrigal. 

I  spoke  in  action  first :  I  faced  all  risks 
To  find  Fedalma.  Action  speaks  again 
When  I,  a  Spanish  noble,  here  declare 
That  I  abide  with  her,  adopt  her  lot, 

Claiming  alone  fulfilment  of  her  vows 
As  my  betrothed  wife. 

Fedalma  (wresting  herself  from  him ,  and  standing 
opposite  with  a  look  of  terror ). 

Nay,  Silva,  nay ! 

You  could  not  live  so ;  spring  from  your  high  place  .  .  . . 

Don  Silva. 

Yes,  I  have  said  it.  And  you,  chief,  are  bound 
By  her  strict  vows,  no  stronger  fealty 
Being  left  to  cancel  them. 

Zarca. 

Strong  words,  my  lord ! 
Sounds  fatal  as  the  hammer-strokes  that  shape 


228  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

The  glowing  metal :  they  must  shape  y our  life. 

That  you  will  claim  my  daughter  is  to  say 
That  you  will  leave  your  Spanish  dignities, 

Your  home,  your  wealth,  your  people,  to  become 
A  true  Zincalo ;  share  your  wanderings, 

And  be  a  match  meet  for  my  daughter’s  dower 
By  living  for  her  tribe ;  take  the  deep  oath 
That  binds  you  to  us  ;  rest  within  our  camp, 

Nevermore  hold  command  of  Spanish  men, 

And  keep  my  orders.  See,  my  lord,  you  lock 
A  many -winding  chain,  —  a  heavy  chain. 

Don  Silva. 

I  have  but  one  resolve  :  let  the  rest  follow. 

What  is  my  rank  ?  To-morrow  it  will  be  filled 
By  one  who  eyes  it  like  a  carrion  bird, 

Waiting  for  death.  I  shall  be  no  more  missed 
Than  waves  are  missed  that  leaping  on  the  rock 
Find  there  a  bed  and  rest.  Life ’s  a  vast  sea 
That  does  its  mighty  errand  without  fail, 

Panting  in  unchanged  strength  though  waves  are  chang¬ 
ing. 

And  I  have  said  it.  She  shall  be  my  people, 

And  where  she  gives  her  life  I  will  give  mine. 

She  shall  not  live  alone,  nor  die  alone. 

I  will  elect  my  deeds,  and  be  the  liege, 

Not  of  my  birth,  but  of  that  good  alone 
I  have  discerned  and  chosen.  * 

Zarca. 

Our  poor  faith 

Allows  not  rightful  choice,  save  of  the  right 
Our  birth  has  made  for  us.  And  you,  my  lord, 

Can  still  defer  your  choice,  for  some  days’  space. 

I  march  perforce  to-night ;  you,  if  you  will, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


229 


Under  Zincalo  guard,  can  keep  the  heights 
With  silent  Time  that  slowly  opes  the  scroll 
Of  change  inevitable  ;  taking  no  oath 
Till  my  accomplished  task  leaves-  me  at  large 
To  see  you  keep  your  purpose  or  renounce  it. 

Don  Silva. 

Chief,  do  I  hear  amiss,  or  does  your  speech 
King  with  a  doubleness  which  I  had  held 
Most  alien  to  you  ?  You  would  put  me  off, 

And  cloak  evasion  with  allowance  ?  No  ! 

We  will  complete  our  pledges.  I  will  take 
That  oath  which  binds  not  me  alone,  but  you, 

To  join  my  life  forever  with  Fedalma’s. 

Zarca. 

I  wrangle  not,  —  time  presses.  But  the  oath 
Will  leave  you  that  same  post  upon  the  heights ; 
Pledged  to  remain  there  while  my  absence  lasts. 
You  are  agreed,  my  lord  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Agreed  to  all. 

Zarca. 

Then  I  will  give  tlie  summons  to  our  camp. 

We  will  adopt  you  as  a  brother  now, 

In  the  Zincalo’s  fashion.  [ Exit  Zaro^, 

(Silva  takes  Fedalma’s  hands.) 

Fed  alma. 

0  my  lord ! 

I  think  the  earth  is  trembling :  naught  is  firm. 

Some  terror  chills  me  with  a  shadowy  grasp. 

Am  I  about  to  wake,  or  do  you  breathe 
Hero  in  this  valley  ?  Did  the  outer  air 


230 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Vibrate  to  fatal  words,  or  did  they  shake 
Only  my  dreaming  soul  ?  Yon  a  Zincalo? 

Don  Silva. 

Is  then  your  love  too  faint  to  raise  belief 
Up  to  that  height  ? 

Fed  alma. 

Silva,  had  you  but  said 

That  you  would  die,  —  that  were  an  easy  task 
For  you  who  oft  have  fronted  death  in  war. 

But  so  to  live  for  me,  — you,  used  to  rule,  — 

You  could  not  breathe  the  air  my  father  breathes 
His  presence  is  subjection.  Go,  my  lord ! 

Fly,  while  there  yet  is  time.  Wait  not  to  speak. 

I  will  declare  that  I  refused  your  love,  — 

Would  keep  no  vows  to  you  .... 

Don  Silva. 

It  is  too  late. 

You  shall  not  thrust  me  back  to  seek  a  good 
Apart  from  you.  And  what  good  ?  Why,  to  face 
Your  absence,  —  all  the  want  that  drove  me  forth 
To  work  the  will  of  a  more  tyrannous  friend 
Than  any  uncowled  father.  Life  at  least 
Gives  choice  of  ills  ;  forces  me  to  defy, 

But  shall  not  force  me  to  a  weak  defiance. 

The  power  that  threatened  you,  to  master  me, 
That  scorches  like  a  cave-liid  dragon’s  breath, 

Sure  of  its  victory  in  spite  of  hate, 

Is  what  I  last  will  bend  to,  —  most  defy. 

Your  father  has  a  chieftain’s  ends,  befitting 
A  soldier’s  eye  and  arm :  were  he  as  strong 
As  the  Moors’  prophet,  yet  the  prophet  too 
Had  younger  captains  of  illustrious  ume 
Among  the  infidels.  Let  him  command, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


231 


For  when  your  father  speaks,  I  shall  hear  you. 
Life  were  no  gain  if  you  were  lost  to  me  : 

I  would  straight  go  and  seek  the  Moorish  walls, 
Challenge  their  bravest,  and  embrace  swift  death. 
The  Glorious  Mother  and  her  pitying  Son 
Are  not  Inquisitors,  else  their  heaven  were  hell. 
Perhaps  they  hate  their  cruel  worshippers, 

And  let  them  feed  on  lies.  I  T1  rather  trust 
They  love  you  and  have  sent  me  to  defend  you. 

Fed  alma. 

I  made  my  creed  so,  just  to  suit  my  mood 
And  smooth  all  hardship,  till  my  father  came 
And  taught  my  soul  by  ruling  it.  Since  then 
I  cannot  weave  a  dreaming  happy  creed 
Where  our  love’s  happiness  is  not  accursed. 

My  father  shook  my  soul  awake.  And  you,  — 
W'hat  the  Zincala  may  not  quit  for  you, 

I  cannot  joy  that  you  should  quit  for  her. 

Don  Silva. 

Oh,  Spanish  men  are  not  a  petty  band 
Where  one  deserter  makes  a  fatal  breach. 

Men,  even  nobles,  are  more  plenteous 
Than  steeds  and  armor ;  and  my  weapons  left 
Will  find  new  hands  to  wield  them.  Arrogance 
Makes  itself  champion  of  mankind,  and  holds 
God’s  purpose  maimed  for  one  hidalgo  lost. 

See  where  your  father  comes  and  brings  a  crowd 
Of  witnesses  to  hear  my  oath  of  love  ; 

The  low  red  sun  glows  on  them  like  a  fire ; 

This  seems  a  valley  in  some  strange  new  world, 
Where  we  have  found  each  other,  my  Fedalma. 


• 

. 

BOOK  IV. 


AJTOW  twice  the  day  had  sunk  from  off  the  hills 
A-M  While  Silva  kept  his  watch  there,  with  the  band 
Of  strong  Zincali.  When  the  sun  was  high 
He  slept,  then,  waking,  strained  impatient  eyes 
To  catch  the  promise  of  some  moving  form 
That  might  be  Juan,  — Juan  who  went  and  came 
To  soothe  two  hearts,  and  claimed  naught  for  his  own  ? 
Friend  more  divine  than  all  divinities, 

Quenching  his  human  thirst  in  others’  joy. 

All  through  the  lingering  nights  and  pale  chill  dawns 
Juan  had  hovered  near ;  with  delicate  sense, 

As  of  some  breath  from  every  changing  mood, 

Had  spoken  or  kept  silence  ;  touched  his  lute 
To  hint  of  melody,  or  poured  brief  strains 
That  seemed  to  make  all  sorrows  natural, 

Hardly  worth  weeping  for,  since  life  was  short, 

And  shared  by  loving  souls.  Such  pity  welled 
Within  the  minstrel’s  heart  of  light-tongued  Juan 
For  this  doomed  man,  who  with  dream-shrouded  eyes 
Had  stepped  into  a  torrent  as  a  brook, 

Thinking  to  ford  it  and  return  at  will, 

And  now  waked  helpless  in  the  eddying  flood, 

Hemmed  by  its  raging  hurry.  Once  that  thought, 

How  easy  wandering  is,  how  hard  and  strict 
The  homeward  way,  had  slipped  from  reverie 
Into  low-murmured  song ;  —  (brief  Spanish  song 
’Scaped  him  as  sighs  escape  from  other  men.) 


234 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Push  off  the  boat , 

Quit ,  quit  the  shore , 

The  stars  will  guide  us  back :  — 

0  gathering  cloud , 

0  wide ,  wide  sea, 

O  waves  that  keep  no  track  ! 

On  through  the  pines  ! 

The  pillared  woods, 

Where  silence  breathes  sweet  breath :  — 

O  labyrinth, 

O  sunless  gloom, 

The  other  side  of  death  / 

Such  plaintive  song  had  seemed  to  please  the  Duke,  — 
Had  seemed  to  melt  all  voices  of  reproach 
To  sympathetic  sadness  ;  but  his  moods 
Had  grown  more  fitful  with  the  growing  hours, 

And  this  soft  murmur  had  the  iterant  voice 
Of  heartless  Echo,  whom  no  pain  can  move 
To  say  aught  else  than  we  have  said  to  her. 

He  spoke,  impatient :  “  Juan,  cease  thy  song. 

Our  whimpering  poesy  and  small-paced  tunes 
Have  no  more  utterance  than  the  cricket’s  chirp 
For  souls  that  carry  heaven  and  hell  within.” 

Then  J uan,  lightly  :  “  True,  my  lord,  I  chirp 
For  lack  of  soul;  some  hungry  poets  chirp 
For  lack  of  bread.  ’T  were  wiser  to  sit  down 
And  count  the  star-seed,  till  I  fell  asleep 
With  the  cheap  wine  of  pure  stupidity.” 

And  Silva,  checked  by  courtesy:  “Nay,  Juan, 

Were  speech  once  good,  thy  song  were  best  of  speech. 

I  meant,  all  life  is  but  poor  mockery  : 

Action,  place,  power,  the  visible  wide  world 
Are  tattered  masquerading  of  this  self. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


235 


This  pulse  of  conscious  mystery :  all  change, 
Whether  to  high  or  low,  is  change  of  rags. 

But  for  her  love,  I  would  not  take  a  good 
Save  to  burn  out  in  battle,  in  a  flame 
Of  madness  that  would  feel  no  mangled  limbs, 

And  die  not  knowing  death,  but  passing  straight  — 
Well,  well,  to  other  flames  —  in  purgatory.’’ 

Keen  Juan’s  ear  caught  the  self-discontent 
That  vibrated  beneath  the  changing  tones 
Of  life-contemning  scorn.  Gently  he  said : 

“But  with  her  love,  my  lord,  the  world  deserves 
A  higher  rate  ;  were  it  but  masquerade, 

The  rags  were  surely  worth  the  wearing  ?”  “  Yes. 

No  misery  shall  force  me  to  repent 
That  I  have  loved  her.” 

So  with  wilful  talk, 
Fencing  the  wounded  soul  from  beating  winds 
Of  truth  that  came  unasked,  companionship 
Made  the  hours  lighter.  And  the  Gypsy  guard, 
Trusting  familiar  Juan,  were  content, 

At  friendly  hint  from  him,  to  still  their  songs 
And  busy  jargon  round  the  nightly  fires. 

Such  sounds  the  quick-conceiving  poet  knew 

Would  strike  on  Silva’s  agitated  soul 

Like  mocking  repetition  of  the  oath 

That  bound  him  in  strange  clanship  with  the  tribe 

Of  human  panthers,  flame-eyed,  lithe-limbed,  fierce; 

Unrecking  of  time-woven  subtleties 

And  high  tribunals  of  a  phantom-world. 

But  the  third  day,  though  Silva  southward  gazed 
Till  all  the  shadows  slanted  towards  him,  gazed 
Till  all  the  shadows  died,  no  Juan  came. 

Now  in  his  stead  came  loneliness,  and  thought 
Inexorable,  fastening  with  firm  chain 


236 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


What  is  to  what  hath  been.  Now  awful  Night, 
Ancestral  mystery  of  mysteries,  came  down 
Past  all  the  generations  of  the  stars, 

And  visited  his  soul  with  touch  more  close 
Than  when  he  kept  that  younger,  briefer  watch 
Under  the  church’s  roof  beside  his  arms, 

And  won  his  knighthood. 

Well,  this  solitude, 

This  company  with  the  enduring  universe, 

Whose  mighty  silence  carrying  all  the  past 
Absorbs  our  history  as  with  a  breath, 

Should  give  him  more  assurance,  make  him  strong 
In  all  contempt  of  that  poor  circumstance 
Called  human  life,  —  customs  and  bonds  and  laws 
Wherewith  men  make  a  better  or  a  worse, 

Like  children  playing  on  a  barren  mound 
Feigning  a  thing  to  strive  for  or  avoid. 

Thus  Silva  urged,  answering  his  many-voiced  self, 
Whose  hungry  needs,  like  petulant  multitudes, 

Lured  from  the  home  that  nurtured  them  to  strength, 
Made  loud  insurgence.  Thus  he  called  on  Thought, 
On  dexterous  Thought,  with  its  swift  alchemy 
To  change  all  forms,  dissolve  all  prejudice 
Of  man’s  long  heritage,  and  yield  him  up 
A  crude  fused  world  to  fashion  as  he  would. 

Thought  played  him  double ;  seemed  to  wear  the  yoke 
Of  sovereign  passion  in  the  noonday  height 
Of  passion’s  prevalence  ;  but  served  anon 
As  tribune  to  the  larger  soul  which  brought 
Loud-mingled  cries  from  every  human  need 
That  ages  had  instructed  into  life. 

He  could  not  grasp  Night’s  black  blank  mystery 

And  wear  it  for  a  spiritual  garb 

Creed-proof :  he  shuddered  at  its  passionless  touch. 

On  solitary  souls,  the  universe 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


287 


Looks  down  inhospitable  ;  the  human  heart 
Finds  nowhere  shelter  but  in  human  kind. 

He  yearned  towards  images  that  had  breath  in  them, 
That  sprang  warm  palpitant  with  memories 
From  streets  and  altars,  from  ancestral  homes, 
Banners  and  trophies  and  the  cherishing  rays 
Of  shame  and  honor  in  the  eyes  of  man. 

These  made  the  speech  articulate  of  his  soul, 

That  could  not  move  to  utterance  of  scorn 
Save  in  words  bred  by  fellowship ;  could  not  feel 
Resolve  of  hardest  constancy  to  love, 

The  firmer  for  the  sorrows  of  the  loved, 

Save  by  concurrent  energies  high-wrought 

To  sensibilities  transcending  sense 

Through  closest  citizenship,  and  long-shared  pains 

Of  far-off  laboring  ancestors.  In  vain 

He  sought  the  outlaw’s  strength,  and  made  a  right 

Contemning  that  hereditary  right 

Which  held  dim  habitations  in  his  frame, 

Mysterious  haunts  of  echoes  old  and  far, 

The  voice  divine  of  human  loyalty. 

At  home,  among  his  people,  he  had  played 
In  sceptic  ease  with  saints  and  images 
And  thunders  of  the  Church  that  deadened  fell 
Through  screens  of  priests  plethoric.  Awe,  unscathed 
By  deeper  trespass,  slept  without  a  dream. 

But  for  such  trespass  as  made  outcasts,  still 
The  ancient  Furies  lived  with  faces  new 
And  lurked  with  lighter  slumber  than  of  old 
O’er  Catholic  Spain,  the  land  of  sacred  oaths 
That  might  be  broken. 

Now  the  former  life 
Of  close-linked  fellowship,  the  life  that  made 
His  full-formed  self,  as  the  impregnant  sap 
Of  vears  successive  frames  the  full-branched  tree,  — 

1/  7 


238 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Was  present  in  one  whole ;  and  that  great  trust 

His  deed  had  broken  turned  reproach  on  him 

From  faces  of  all  witnesses  who  heard 

His  uttered  pledges ;  saw  him  hold  high  place 

Centring  reliance  ;  use  rich  privilege 

That  bound  him  like  a  victim-nourished  god 

By  tacit  covenant  to  shield  and  bless ; 

Assume  the  Cross  and  take  his  knightly  oath 
Mature,  deliberate  :  faces  human  all, 

And  some  divine  as  well  as  human :  His 
Who  hung  supreme,  the  suffering  Man  divine 
Above  the  altar  ;  Hers,  the  Mother  pure 
Whose  glance  informed  his  masculine  tenderness 
With  deepest  reverence  ;  the  Archangel  armed, 
Trampling  man’s  enemy  :  all  heroic  forms 
That  fill  the  world  of  faith  with  voices,  hearts, 

And  high  companionship,  to  Silva  now 
Made  but  one  inward  and  insistent  world 
With  faces  of  his  peers,  with  court  and  hall 
And  deference,  and  reverent  vassalage 
And  filial  pieties,  —  one  current  strong, 

The  warmly  mingled  life-blood  of  his  mind, 
Sustaining  him  even  when  he  idly  played 
With  rules,  beliefs,  charges,  and  ceremonies 
As  arbitrary  fooling.  Such  revenge 
Is  wrought  by  the  long  travail  of  mankind 
On  him  who  scorns  it,  and  would  shape  his  life 
Without  obedience. 

But  his  warrior’s  pride 

Would  take  no  wounds  save  on  the  breast.  He  faced 
The  fatal  crowd  :  “  I  never  shall  repent ! 

If  I  have  sinned  my  sin  was  made  for  me 

By  men’s  perverseness.  There ’s  no  blameless  life 

Save  for  the  passionless,  no  sanctities 

But  have  the  selfsame  roof  and  props  with  crime. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


239 


Or  have  their  roots  close  interlaced  with  vileness. 
If  I  had  loved  her  less,  been  more  a  craven, 

I  had  kept  my  place  and  won  the  easy  praise 
Of  a  true  Spanish  noble.  But  I  loved, 

And,  loving,  dared,  —  not  Death  the  warrior 
But  Infamy  that  binds  and  strips  and  holds 
The  brand  and  lash.  I  have  dared  all  for  her. 
She  was  my  good,  —  what  other  men  call  heaven 
And  for  the  sake  of  it  bear  penances ; 

Nay,  some  of  old  were  baited,  tortured,  flayed 
To  win  their  heaven.  Heaven  was  their  good, 
She,  mine.  And  I  have  braved  for  her  all  fires 
Certain  or  threatened  ;  for  I  go  away 
Beyond  the  reach  of  expiation,  —  far  away 
From  sacramental  blessing.  Does  God  bless 
No  outlaw  ?  Shut  his  absolution  fast 
In  human  breath  ?  Is  there  no  God  for  me 
Save  Him  whose  cross  I  have  forsaken  ?  —  Well, 

I  am  forever  exiled,  —  but  with  her. 

She  is  dragged  out  into  the  wilderness ; 

I,  with  my  love,  will  be  her  providence. 

I  have  a  right  to  choose  my  good  or  ill, 

A  right  to  damn  myself !  The  ill  is  mine. 

I  never  will  repent !  ”  .  .  .  . 

Thus  Silva,  inwardly  debating,  all  his  ear 
Turned  into  audience  of  a  twofold  mind ; 

For  even  in  tumult  full-fraught  consciousness 
Had  plenteous  being  for  a  Self  aloof 
That  gazed  and  listened,  like  a  soul  in  dreams 
Weaving  the  wondrous  tale  it  marvels  at. 

But  oft  the  conflict  slackened,  oft  strong  Love 
With  tidal  energy  returning  laid 
All  other  restlessness  :  Fedalma  came 
And  with  her  visionary  presence  brought 
What  seemed  a  waking  in  the  warm  spring  morn. 


240 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


He  still  was  pacing  on  the  stony  earth 
Under  the  deepening  night ;  the  fresh-lit  fires 
Were  flickering  on  dark  forms  and  eyes  that  met 
His  forward  and  his  backward  tread ;  but  she, 

She  was  within  him,  making  his  whole  self 
Mere  correspondence  with  her  image  :  sense, 

In  all  its  deep  recesses  where  it  keeps 

The  mystic  stores  of  ecstasy,  was  transformed 

To  memory  that  killed  the  hour,  like  wine. 

Then  Silva  said :  u  She,  by  herself,  is  life. 

What  was  my  joy  before  I  loved  her,  —  what 
Shall  Heaven  lure  us  with,  love  being  lost  ?  ”  — 

For  he  was  young. 

But  now  around  the  fires 
The  Gypsy  band  felt  freer ;  Juan’s  song 
Was  no  more  there,  nor  Juan’s  friendly  ways 
For  links  of  amity  ’twixt  their  wild  mood 
And  this  strange  brother,  this  pale  Spanish  duke, 
Who  with  their  Gypsy  badge  upon  his  breast 
Took  readier  place  within  their  alien  hearts 
As  a  marked  captive,  who  would  fain  escape. 

And  Nadar,  who  commanded  them,  had  known 
The  prison  in  Bedmar.  So  now,  in  talk 
Foreign  to  Spanish  ears,  they  said  their  minds, 
Discussed  their  chief’s  intent,  the  lot  marked  out 
For  this  new  brother.  Would  he  wed  their  queen  ? 
And  some  denied,  saying  their  queen  would  wed 
A  true  Zincalo  duke,  — one  who  would  join 
Their  bands  in  Telemsdn.  But  others  thought 
Young  Hassan  was  to  wed  her ;  said  their  chief 
Would  never  trust  this  noble  of  Castile, 

Who  in  his  very  swearing  was  forsworn. 

And  then  one  fell  to  chanting,  in  wild  notes 
Recurrent  like  the  moan  of  outshut  winds. 

The  adjuration  they  were  wont  to  use 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


241 


To  any  Spaniard  who  would  join  their  tribe: 

Words  of  plain  Spanish,  lately  stirred  anew 
And  ready  at  new  impulse.  Soon  the  rest, 

Drawn  to  the  stream  of  sound,  made  unison 
Higher  and  lower,  till  the  tidal  sweep 
Seemed  to  assail  the  Duke  and  close  him  round 
With  force  demonic.  All  debate  till  now 
Had  wrestled  with  the  urgence  of  that  oath 
Already  broken ;  now  the  newer  oath 
Thrust  its  loud  presence  on  him.  He  stood  still, 

Close  baited  by  loud-barking  thoughts,  —  heree  hounds 
Of  that  Supreme,  the  irreversible  Past. 

The  Zincali  sing. 

Brother ,  hear  and  take  the  curse , 

Curse  of  soul’s  and  body’s  throes , 

If  you  hate  not  all  our  foes , 

Cling  not  fast  to  all  our  woes , 

Turn  a  false  Zincalo  ! 

May  you  be  accurst 
By  hunger  and  by  thirst , 

•  By  spiked  pangs , 

Starvation’ s  fangs 
Clutching  you  alone 

When  none  but  peering  vultures  hear  your  moan. 

Curst  by  burning  hands, 

Curst  by  aching  brow , 

When  on  sea-wide  sands 
Fever  lays  you  low  ; 

By  the  maddened  brain 
When  the  running  water  glistens, 

And  the  deaf  ear  listens ,  listens , 

Prisoned  fire  within  the  vein, 

On  the  tongue  and  on  the  lip 

16 


242 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Not  a  sip 

From  the  earth  or  skies  ; 

Hot  the  desert  lies 
Pressed  into  your  anguish , 

Narrowing  earth  and  narrowing  sky 
Into  lonely  misery. 

Lonely  may  you  languish 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Hate  the  darkness ,  hate  the  light, 

Pray  and  find  no  ear, 

Feel  no  brother  near, 

Till  on  death  you  cry, 

Death  who  passes  by, 

And  anew  you  groan, 

Scaring  the  vultures  all  to  leave  you  living  lone 
Curst  by  soul’s  and  body’s  throes 
If  you  love  the  dark  men’s  foes, 

Cling  not  fast  to  all  the  dark  men’s  woes, 

Turn  a  false  Zincalo  ! 

Swear  to  hate  the  cruel  cross, 

The  silver  cross  ! 

Glittering,  laughing  at  the  blood 
Shed  below  it  in  a  flood 
When  it  glitters  over  Moorish  porches  ; 

Laughing  at  the  scent  of  flesh 
When  it  glitters  where  the  fagot  scorches , 
Burning  life’s  mysterious  mesh  : 

Blood  of  wandering  Israel, 

Blood  of  wandering  Ismael, 

Blood,  the  drink  of  Christian  scorn, 
Blood  of  wanderers,  sons  of  morn 
Where  the  life  of  men  began  : 

Swear  to  hate  the  cross  !  — 

Sign  of  all  the  wanderers’  foes , 

Sign  of  all  the  wanderers’  woes,  — 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


24a 


Else  its  curse  light  on  you  / 

Else  the  curse  upon  you  light 
Of  its  sharp  red-sworded  might . 

May  it  lie  a  blood-red  blight 
On  all  things  within  your  sight : 

On  the  white  haze  of  the  morn , 

On  the  meadows  and  the  corn , 

On  the  sun  and  on  the  moon, 

On  the  clearness  of  the  noon , 

On  the  darkness  of  the  night. 

May  it  fill  your  aching  sight ,  — 

Ped-cross  sword  and  sivord  blood-red,  — * 
Till  it  press  upon  your  head , 

Till  it  lie  ivithin  your  brain , 

Piercing  sharp ,  a  cross  of  pain, 

Till  it  lie  upon  your  heart , 

Turning  hot,  a  cross  of  fire, 

Till  from  sense  in  every  part 
Pains  have  clustered  like  a  stinging  swarm 
In  the  cross’s  form, 

And  you  see  naught  but  the  cross  of  blood, 

And  you  feel  naught  but  the  cross  of  fire  : 

Curst  by  all  the  cross’s  throes 
If  you  hate  not  all  our  foes, 

Cling  not  fast  to  all  our  woes, 

Turn  a  false  Zincalo  ! 

A  fierce  delight  was  in  the  Gypsies’  chant : 

They  thought  no  more  of  Silva,  only  felt 
Like  those  broad-chested  rovers  of  the  night 
Who  pour  exuberant  strength  upon  the  air. 

To  him  it  seemed  as  if  the  hellish  rhythm, 
Revolving  in  long  curves  that  slackened  now, 

Now  hurried,  sweeping  round  again  to  slackness, 
Would  cease  no  more.  What  use  to  raise  his  voice, 


244 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Or  grasp  his  weapon  ?  He  was  powerless  now, 
With  these  new  comrades  of  his  future,  —  he 
Who  had  been  wont  to  have  his  wishes  feared 
And  guessed  at  as  a  hidden  law  for  men. 

Even  the  passive  silence  of  the  night 

That  left  these  howlers  mastery,  even  the  moon, 

Rising  and  staring  with  a  helpless  face, 

Angered  him.  He  was  ready  now  to  fly 
At  some  loud  throat,  and  give  the  signal  so 
For  butchery  of  himself. 

But  suddenly 

The  sounds  that  travelled  towards  no  foreseen  close 
Were  torn  right  off  and  fringed  into  the  night ; 
Sharp  Gypsy  ears  had  caught  the  onward  strain 
Of  kindred  voices  joining  in  the  chant. 

All  started  to  their  feet  and  mustered  close, 
Auguring  long-waited  summons.  It  was  come : 

The  summons  to  set  forth  and  join  their  chief. 
Eedalma  had  been  called,  and  she  was  gone 
Under  safe  escort,  Juan  following  her: 

The  camp  —  the  women,  children,  and  old  men  — 
Were  moving  slowly  southward  on  the  way 
To  Almeria.  Silva  learned  no  more. 

He  marched  perforce  ;  what  other  goal  was  his 
Than  where  Eedalma  was  ?  And  so  he  marched 
Through  the  dim  passes  and  o’er  rising  hills, 

Not  knowing  whither,  till  the  morning  came. 


The  Moorish  hall  in  the  castle  at  Bedmdr.  The  morning 
twilight  dimly  shows  stains  of  blood  on  the  white  mar¬ 
ble  floor  ;  yet  there  has  been  a  careful  restoration  of 
order  among  the  sparse  objects  of  furniture.  Stretched 
on  mats  lie  three  corpses ,  the  faces  bare ,  the  bodies 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


245 


covered  with  mantles.  A  little  way  off,  with  rolled 
matting  for  a  pillow,  lies  Zarca,  sleeping.  His  chest 
and  arms  are  bare  ;  his  weapons,  turban,  mail-sliirt, 
and  other  upper  garments  lie  on  the  floor  beside  him. 
In  the  outer  gallery  Zincali  are  pacing,  at  intervals , 
past  the  arched  openings. 

Zarca  ( half  rising  and  resting  his  elbow  on  the  pillow 

while  he  looks  round). 

The  morning !  I  have  slept  for  full  three  hours  ; 

Slept  without  dreams,  save  of  my  daughter’s  face. 

Its  sadness  waked  me.  Soon  she  will  be  here, 

Soon  must  outlive  the  worst  of  all  the  pains 
Bred  by  false  nurture  in  an  alien  home,  — 

As  if  a  lion  in  fangless  infancy 

Learned  love  of  creatures  that  with  fatal  growth 

It  scents  as  natural  prey,  and  grasps  and  tears, 

Yet  with  heart-hunger  yearns  for,  missing  them. 

She  is  a  lioness.  And  they  —  the  race 

That  robbed  me  of  her  —  reared  her  to  this  pain. 

He  will  be  crushed  and  torn.  There  was  no  help. 

But  she,  my  child,  will  bear  it.  For  strong  souls 
Live  like  fire-hearted  suns  to  spend  their  strength 
In  furthest  striving  action  ;  breathe  more  free 
In  mighty  anguish  than  in  trivial  ease. 

Her  sad  face  waked  me.  I  shall  meet  it  soon 
Waking  .... 

{He  rises  and  stands  looking  at  the  corpses .  { 
As  now  I  look  on  these  pale  dead, 
These  blossoming  branches  crushed  beneath  the  fall 
Of  that  broad  trunk  to  which  I  laid  my  axe 
With  fullest  foresight.  So  will  I  ever  face 
In  thought  beforehand  to  its  utmost  reach 
The  consequences  of  my  conscious  deeds ; 

So  face  them  after,  bring  them  to  my  bed, 


246 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


And  never  drug  my  soul  to  sleep  with  lies. 

If  they  are  cruel,  they  shall  be  arraigned 
By  that  true  name ;  they  shall  be  justified 
By  my  high  purpose,  by  the  clear-seen  good 
That  grew  into  my  vision  as  I  grew, 

And  makes  my  nature’s  function,  the  full  pulse 
Of  my  Zincalo  soul.  The  Catholics, 

Arabs,  and  Hebrews  have  their  god  apiece 

To  fight  and  conquer  for  them,  or  be  bruised 

Like  Allah,  and  yet  keep  avenging  stores 

Of  patient  wrath.  Zincali  have  no  god 

Who  speaks  to  them  and  calls  them  his,  unless 

I  Zarca  carry  living  in  my  frame 

The  power  divine  that  chooses  them  and  saves. 

Life  and  more  life  unto  the  chosen,  death 
To  all  things  living  that  would  stifle  them  ! 

So  speaks  each  god  that  makes  a  nation  strong ; 

Burns  trees  and  brutes  and  slays  all  hindering  men. 
The  Spaniards  boast  their  god  the  strongest  now ; 
They  win  most  towns  by  treachery,  make  most  slaves. 
Burn  the  most  vines  and  men,  and  rob  the  most. 

I  fight  against  that  strength,  and  in  my  turn 
Slay  these  brave  young  who  duteously  strove. 

Cruel  ?  ay,  it  is  cruel.  But,  how  else  ? 

To  save,  we  kill ;  each  blow  we  strike  at  guilt 
Hurts  innocence  with  its  shock.  Men  might  well  seek 
For  purifying  rites  ;  even  pious  deeds 
Need  washing.  But  my  cleansing  waters  flow 
Solely  from  my  intent. 

( He  turns  away  from  the  bodies  to  where  his  gar¬ 
ments  lie ,  but  does  not  lift  them.) 

And  she  must  suffer ! 

But  she  has  looked  on  the  unchangeable  and  bowed 
Her  head  beneath  the  yoke.  And  she  will  walk 
No  more  in  chilling  twilight,  for  to-day 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


247 


Rises  our  sun.  The  difficult  night  is  past ; 

We  keep  the  bridge  no  more,  but  cross  it ;  march 
Forth  to  a  land  where  all  our  wars  shall  be 
With  greedy  obstinate  plants  that  will  not  yield 
Fruit  for  their  nurture.  All  our  race  shall  come 
From  north,  west,  east,  a  kindred  multitude, 

And  make  large  fellowship,  and  raise  inspired 
The  shout  divine,  the  unison  of  resolve. 

So  I,  so  she,  will  see  our  race  redeemed. 

And  their  keen  love  of  family  and  tribe 
Shall  no  more  thrive  on  cunning,  hide  and  lurk 
In  petty  arts  of  abject  hunted  life, 

But  grow  heroic  in  the  sanctioning  light, 

And  feed  with  ardent  blood  a  nation’s  heart. 

That  is  my  work  :  and  it  is  well  begun. 

On  to  achievement ! 

(He  takes  up  the  mail-shirt ,  and  looks  at  it ,  then 
throws  it  doivn  again?) 

No,  I  ’ll  none  of  you ! 

To-day  there  ’ll  be  no  fighting.  A  few  hours, 

And  I  shall  doff  these  garments  of  the  Moor : 

Till  then  I  will  walk  lightly  and  breathe  high. 

Sephardo  (appearing  at  the  archway  leading  into  the 

outer  gallery). 

You  bade  me  wake  you  .... 

Zarca. 

Welcome,  Doctor;  see, 
With  that  small  task  I  did  but  beckon  you 
To  graver  work.  You  know  these  corpses  ? 

Sephardo. 

Yes, 

I  would  they  were  not  corpses.  Storms  will  lay 
The  fairest  trees  and  leave  the  withered  stumps 


248 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT, 


Phis  Alvar  and  the  Duke  were  of  one  age. 

And  very  loving  friends.  I  minded  not 
The  sight  of  Don  Diego’s  corpse,  for  death 
Gave  him  some  gentleness,  and  had  he  lived 
I  had  still  hated  him.  But  this  young  Alvar 
Was  doubly  noble,  as  a  gem  that  holds 
Rare  virtues  in  its  lustre,  and  his  death 
Will  pierce  Don  Silva  with  a  poisoned  dart. 

This  fair  and  curly  youth  was  Arias, 

A  son  of  the  Pachecos  ;  this  dark  face  — 

Zarca. 

Enough !  you  know  their  names.  I  had  divined 
That  they  were  near  the  Duke,  most  like  had  served 
My  daughter,  were  her  friends.  So  rescued  them 
From  being  flung  upon  the  heap  of  slain. 

Beseech  you,  Doctor,  if  you  owe  me  aught 
As  having  served  your  people,  take  the  pains 
To  see  these  bodies  buried  decently. 

And  let  their  names  be  writ  above  their  graves, 

As  those  of  brave  young  Spaniards  who  died  well. 

I  needs  must  bear  this  womanhood  in  my  heart,  — 
Bearing  my  daughter  there.  For  once  she  prayed,— 
?T  was  at  our  parting,  —  u  When  you  see  fair  hair 
Be  pitiful.”  And  I  am  forced  to  look 
On  fair  heads  living  and  be  pitiless. 

Your  service,  Doctor,  will  be  done  to  her. 

Sephardo. 

A  service  doubly  dear.  For  these  young  dead, 

And  one  less  happy  Spaniard  who  still  lives, 

Are  offerings  which  I  wrenched  from  out  my  heart, 
Constrained  by  cries  of  Israel :  while  my  hands 
Rendered  the  victims  at  command,  my  eyes 
Closed  themselves  vainly,  as  if  vision  lay 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


249 


Through  those  poor  loopholes  only.  I  will  go 
And  see  the  graves  dug  by  some  cypresses. 

Zarca. 

Meanwhile  the  bodies  shall  rest  here.  Farewell. 

( Exit  Sephardo.) 

Nay,  ’t  is  no  mockery.  She  keeps  me  so 
From  hardening  with  the  hardness  of  my  acts. 

This  Spaniard  shrouded  in  her  love,  —  I  would 
He  lay  here  too  that  I  might  pity  him. 


Morning.  —  The  Plaga  Santiago  in  Bedmdr.  A  crowd  of 
townsmen  forming  an  outer  circle :  within ,  Zincali 
and  Moorish  soldiers  drawn  up  round  the  central  space. 
On  the  higher  ground  in  front  of  the  church  a  stake 
with  fagots  heaped ,  and  at  a  little  distance  a  gibbet. 
Moorish  music.  Zarca  enters ,  wearing  his  gold  neck¬ 
lace  with  the  Gypsy  badge  of  the  flaming  torch  over 
the  dress  of  a  Moorish  captain ,  accompanied  by  a 
small  band  of  armed  Zincali ,  who  fall  aside  and  range 
themselves  with  the  other  soldiers  while  he  takes  his 
stand  in  front  of  the  stake  and  gibbet.  The  music 
ceases ,  and  there  is  expectant  silence. 

Zarca. 

Men  of  Bedmar,  well-wishers,  and  allies, 

Whether  of  Moorish  or  of  Hebrew  blood, 

Who,  being  galled  by  the  hard  Spaniard’s  yoke, 
Have  welcomed  our  quick  conquest  as  release, 

T,  Zarca,  the  Zincalo  chieftain,  hold 
By  delegation  of  the  Moorish  King 
Supreme  command  within  this  town  and  fort. 

Nor  will  I,  with  false  show  of  modesty, 


250 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Profess  myself  unworthy  of  this  post, 

For  so  I  should  but  tax  the  giver’s  choice. 

And,  as  ye  know,  while  I  was  prisoner  here, 
Forging  the  bullets  meant  for  Moorish  hearts, 

But  likely  now  to  reach  another  mark, 

I  learned  the  secrets  of  the  town’s  defence, 

Caught  the  loud  whispers  of  your  discontent, 

And  so  could  serve  the  purpose  of  the  Moor 
As  the  edge’s  keenness  serves  the  weapon’s  weight. 
And  my  Zincali,  lynx-eyed,  lithe  of  limb, 

Tracked  out  the  high  Sierra’s  hidden  path, 

Guided  the  hard  ascent,  and  were  the  first 
To  scale  the  walls  and  brave  the  showering  stones. 
In  brief,  I  reached  this  rank  through  service  done 
By  thought  of  mine  and  valor  of  my  tribe, 

Yet  hold  it  but  in  trust,  with  readiness 
To  lay  it  down ;  for  I  and  my  Zincali 
Will  never  pitch  our  tents  again  on  land 
The  Spaniard  grudges  us  :  we  seek  a  home 
Where  we  may  spread  and  ripen  like  the  corn 
By  blessing  of  the  sun  and  spacious  earth. 

Ye  wish  us  well,  I  think,  and  are  our  friends  ? 

Crowd. 

Long  life  to  Zarca  and  his  strong  Zincali ! 

Zarca. 

Now,  for  the  cause  of  our  assembling  here. 

’T  was  my  command  that  rescued  from  your  hands 
That  Spanish  Prior  and  Inquisitor 
Whom  in  fierce  retribution  you  had  bound 
And  meant  to  burn,  tied  to  a  planted  cross. 

I  rescued  him  with  promise  that  his  death 
Should  be  more  signal  in  its  justice,  —  mads 
Public  in  fullest  sense,  and  orderly. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


251 


Here,  then,  you  see  the  stake,  —  slow  death  by  fire ; 
And  there  a  gibbet,  —  swift  death  by  the  cord. 

Now  hear  me,  Moors  and  Hebrews  of  Bedmar, 

Our  kindred  by  the  warmth  of  Eastern  blood ! 
Punishing  cruel  wrong  by  cruelty 
We  copy  Christian  crime.  Vengeance  is  justs 
Justly  we  rid  the  earth  of  human  fiends 
Who  carry  hell  for  pattern  in  their  souls. 

But  in  high  vengeance  there  is  noble  scorn : 

It  tortures  not  the  torturer,  nor  gives 
Iniquitous  payment  for  iniquity. 

The  great  avenging  angel  does  not  crawl 
To  kill  the  serpent  with  a  mimic  fang ; 

He  stands  erect,  with  sword  of  keenest  edge 
That  slays  like  lightning.  So  too  we  will  slay 
The  e-uel  man;  slay  him  because  he  works 
W  oe  to  mankind.  And  I  have  given  command 
To  pile  these  fagots,  not  to  burn  quick  flesh, 

But  for  a  sign  of  that  dire  wrong  to  men 

Which  arms  our  wrath  with  justice.  While,  to  show 

This  Christian  worshipper  that  we  obey 

A  better  law  than  his,  he  shall  be  led 

Straight  to  the  gibbet  and  to  swiftest  death. 

For  I,  the  chief  of  the  Zincali,  will, 

My  people  shed  no  blood  but  what  is  shed 
In  heat  of  battle  or  in  judgment  strict 
With  calm  deliberation  on  the  right. 

Such  is  my  will,  and  if  it  please  you,  —  welL 

Crowd. 

Tt  pleases  us.  Long  life  to  Zarca ! 

Zarca. 

Hark! 

The  bell  is  striking,  and  they  bring  even  now 
The  prisoner  irom  the  fort.  What,  Nadar  ? 


252 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Nadar  (has  appeared,  cutting  the  crowd,  and  advance 
ing  toward  Zarca  till  he  is  near  enough  to  speak  in 
an  undertone ). 

Chief, 

I  have  obeyed  your  word,  have  followed  it 
As  water  does  the  furrow  in  the  rock. 

Zarca. 

Your  band  is  here  ? 

Nadar. 

Yes,  and  the  Spaniard  too. 
Zarca. 

*T  was  so  I  ordered. 

Nadar. 

Ay,  but  this  sleek  hound, 

Who  slipped  his  collar  off  to  join  the  wolves, 

Has  still  a  heart  for  none  but  kennelled  brutes. 

He  rages  at  the  taking  of  the  town, 

Says  all  his  friends  are  butchered-,  and  one  corpse 
He  stumbled  on,  —  well,  I  would  sooner  be 
A  dead  Zincalo’s  dog,  and  howl  for  him, 

Than  be  this  Spaniard.  Rage  has  made  him  whiter. 
One  townsman  taunted  him  with  his  escape, 

And  thanked  him  for  so  favoring  us . 

Zarca. 

Enough  1 

You  gave  him  my  command  that  he  should  wait 
Within  the  castle,  till  I  saw  him  ? 

Nadar. 

Yes. 

But  he  defied  me,  broke  away,  ran  loose 
I  know  not  whither ;  he  may  soon  be  here. 

I  came  to  warn  you,  lest  he  work  us  harm. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


2oo 


Zarca. 

Fear  not,  I  know  the  road  I  travel  by  : 

Tts  turns  are  no  surprises.  He  who  rules 
Must  humor  full  as  much  as  he  commands ; 

Must  let  men  vow  impossibilities  ; 

Grant  folly’s  prayers  that  hinder  folly’s  wish 
And  serve  the  ends  of  wisdom.  Ah,  he  comes ! 

[Sweeping  like  some  pale  herald  from  the  dead, 
Whose  shadow-nurtured  eyes,  dazed  by  full  light. 
See  naught  without,  but  give  reverted  sense 
To  the  soul’s  imagery,  Silva  came, 

The  wondering  people  parting  wide  to  get 
Continuous  sight  of  him  as  he  passed  en,  — 

This  high  hidalgo,  who  through  blooming  years 
Had  shone  on  men  with  planetary  calm, 

Believed  in  with  all  sacred  images 
And  saints  that  must  be  taken  as  they  were, 
Though  rendering  meagre  service  for  men’s  praise, 
Bareheaded  now,  carrying  an  unsheathed  sword. 
And  on  his  breast,  where  late  he  bore  the  cross, 
Wearing  the  Gypsy  badge,  his  form  aslant, 

Driven,  it  seemed,  by  some  invisible  chase, 

Right  to  the  front  of  Zarca.  There  he  paused.] 

Don  Silva. 

Chief,  you  are  treacherous,  cruel,  devilish,  — 
Relentless  as  a  curse  that  once  let  loose 
From  lips  of  wrath,  lives  bodiless  to  destroy, 

And  darkly  traps  a  man  in  nets  of  guilt 
Which  could  not  weave  themselves  in  open  day 
Before  his  eyes.  Oh,  it  was  bitter  wrong 
To  hold  this  knowledge  locked  within  your  mind, 
To  stand  with  waking  eyes  in  broadest  light, 

And  see  me,  dreaming,  shed  my  kindred’s  blood. 


254 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


T  is  horrible  that  men  with  hearts  and  hands 
Should  smile  in  silence  like  the  firmament 
And  see  a  fellow-mortal  draw  a  lot 
On  which  themselves  have  written  agony ! 

Such  injury  has  no  redress,  no  healing 
Save  what  may  lie  in  stemming  further  ill. 

Poor  balm  for  maiming !  Yet  I  come  to  claim  it. 

Zarca. 

First  prove  your  wrongs,  and  I  will  hear  your  claim. 
Mind,  you  are  not  commander  of  Bedmar, 

Nor  duke,  nor  knight,  nor  anything  for  me, 

Save  one  Zincalo,  one  of  my  subject  tribe, 

Over  whose  deeds  my  will  is  absolute. 

You  chose  that  lot,  and  would  have  railed  at  me 
Had  I  refused  it  you :  I  warned  you  first 
What  oaths  you  had  to  take  .... 

Don  Silva. 

You  never  warned  me 

That  you  had  linked  yourself  with  Moorish  men 
To  take  this  town  and  fortress  of  Bedmar,  — 

Slay  my  near  kinsmen,  him  who  held  my  place, 

Our  house’s  heir  and  guardian,  —  slay  my  friend, 

My  chosen  brother,  —  desecrate  the  church 
Where  once  my  mother  held  me  in  her  arms, 

Making  the  holy  chrism  holier 

With  tears  of  joy  that  fell  upon  my  brow ! 

You  never  warned  .... 

Zarca. 

I  warned  you  of  your  oath. 

You  shrank  not,  were  resolved,  were  sure  your  place 
Would  never  miss  you,  and  you  had  your  will. 

I  am  no  priest,  and  keep  no  consciences : 

I  keep  my  own  place  and  my  own  command. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


255 


Don  Silva. 

1  said  my  place  would  never  miss  me  —  yes ! 

A  thousand  Spaniards  died  on  that  same  day 

And  were  not  missed ;  their  garments  clothed  the  backs 

That  else  were  bare  .... 

Zarca. 

But  you  were  just  the  one 
Above  the  thousand,  had  you  known  the  die 
That  fate  was  throwing  then. 

Don  Silva. 

You  knew  it,  —  you ! 

With  fiendish  knowledge,  smiling  at  the  end. 

You  knew  what  snares  had  made  my  flying  steps 
Murderous ;  you  let  me  lock  my  soul  with  oaths 
Which  your  acts  made  a  hellish  sacrament. 

I  say,  you  knew  this  as  a  fiend  would  know  it, 

And  let  me  damn  myself. 

Zarca. 

The  deed  was  done 

Before  you  took  your  oath,  or  reached  our  camp,  — 
Done  when  you  slipped  in  secret  from  the  post 
’T  was  yours  to  keep,  and  not  to  meditate 
If  others  might  not  fill  it.  For  your  oath, 

What  man  is  he  who  brandishes  a  sword 
In  darkness,  kills  his  friends,  and  rages  then 
Against  the  night  that  kept  him  ignorant  ? 

Should  I,  for  one  unstable  Spaniard,  quir 
My  steadfast  ends  as  father  and  as  chief ; 

Renounce  my  daughter  and  my  people’s  hope, 

Lest  a  deserter  should  be  made  ashamed  ? 

Don  Silva. 

Your  daughter,  —  O  great  God  !  I  vent  but  madness* 

The  past  will  never  change.  I  come  to  stem 


256 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Harm  that  may  yet  be  hindered.  Chief  —  this  stake  — 
Tell  me  who  is  to  die !  Are  you  not  bound 
Yourself  to  him  you  took  in  fellowship  ? 

The  town  is  yours ;  let  me  but  save  the  blood 
That  still  is  warm  in  men  who  were  my  .... 


Zarca. 


They  bring  the  prisoner. 


Peace ! 


[Zarca  waved  his  arm 
With  head  averse,  in  peremptory  sign 
That  ’twixt  them  now  there  should  be  space  and  silence. 
Most  eyes  had  turned  to  where  the  prisoner 
Advanced  among  his  guards ;  and  Silva  too 
Turned  eagerly,  all  other  striving  quelled 
By  striving  with  the  dread  lest  he  should  see 
His  thought  outside  him.  And  he  saw  it  there. 

The  prisoner  was  Father  Isidor : 

The  man  whom  once  he  fiercely  had  accused 
As  author  of  his  misdeeds,  —  whose  designs 
Had  forced  him  into  fatal  secrecy. 

The  imperious  and  inexorable  Will 
Was  yoked,  and  he  who  had  been  pitiless 
To  Silva’s  love,  was  led  to  pitiless  death. 

0  hateful  victory  of  blind  wishes,  —  prayers 
Which  hell  had  overheard  and  swift  fulfilled  ! 

The  triumph  was  a  torture,  turning  all 
The  strength  of  passion  into  strength  of  pain. 

Remorse  was  born  within  him,  that  dire  birth 
Which  robs  all  else  of  nurture,  —  cancerous, 

Forcing  each  pulse  to  feed  its  anguish,  changing 
All  sweetest  residues  of  a  healthy  life 
To  fibrous  clutches  of  slow  misery. 

Silva  had  but  rebelled,  —  he  was  not  free ; 

A.nd  all  the  subtle  cords  that  bound  his  soul 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


257 


Were  tightened  by  the  strain  of  one  rash  leap 
Made  in  defiance.  He  accused  no  more, 

But  dumbly  shrank  before  accusing  throngs 
Of  thoughts,  the  impetuous  recurrent  rush 
Of  all  his  past-created,  unchanged  self. 

The  Father  came  bareheaded,  frocked,  a  rope 
Around  his  neck,  —  but  clad  with  majesty, 

The  strength  of  resolute  undivided  souls 
Who,  owning  law,  obey  it.  In  his  band 
He  bore  a  crucifix,  and  praying,  gazed 
Solely  on  that  white  image.  But  his  guards 
Parted  in  front,  and  paused  as  they  approached 
The  centre,  where  the  stake  was.  Isidor 
Lifted  his  eyes  to  look  around  him,  —  calm, 
Prepared  to  speak  last  words  of  willingness 
To  meet  his  death, — last  words  of  faith  unchanged, 
That,  working  for  Christ’s  kingdom,  he  had  wrought 
Righteously.  But  his  glance  met  Silva’s  eyes 
And  drew  him.  Even  images  of  stone 
Look  living  with  reproach  on  him  who  maims, 
Profanes,  defiles  them,  Silva  penitent 
Moved  forward,  would  have  knelt  before  the  man 
Who  still  was  one  with  all  the  sacred  things 
That  came  back  on  him  in  their  sacredness, 

Kindred,  and  oaths,  and  awe,  and  mystery. 

But,  at  the  sight,  the  Father  thrust  the  cross 
With  deprecating  act  before  him,  and  his  face 
Pale-quivering,  flashed  out  horror  like  white  light 
Flashed  from  the  angel’s  sword  that  dooming  drave 
The  sinner  to  the  wilderness.  He  spoke.] 

Father  Isidor. 

Bach  from  me,  traitorous  and  accursed  man ! 

Defile  not  me,  who  grasp  the  holiest, 

17 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


With  touch  or  breath  !  Thou  foulest  murderer  J 
Fouler  than  Cain  who  struck  liis  brother  down 
In  jealous  rage,  thou  for  thy  base  delight 
Hast  oped  the  gate  for  wolves  to  come  and  tear 
Uncounted  brethren,  weak  and  strong  alike, 

The  helpless  priest,  the  warrior  all  unarmed 
Against  a  faithless  leader :  on  thy  head 
Will  rest  the  sacrilege,  on  thy  soul  the  blood. 

These  blind  Zincali,  misbelievers,  Moors, 

Are  but  as  Pilate  and  his  soldiery; 

Thou,  Judas,  weighted  with  that  heaviest  crime 
Which  deepens  hell !  I  warned  you  of  this  end. 

A  traitorous  leader,  false  to  God  and  man, 

A  knight  apostate,  you  shall  soon  behold 
Above  your  people’s  blood  the  light  of  flames 
Kindled  by  you  to  burn  me,  —  burn  the  flesh 
Twin  with  your  father’s.  0  most  wretched  man ! 
Whose  memory  shall  be  of  broken  oaths,  — 

Broken  for  lust,  —  I  turn  away  mine  eyes 
Forever  from  you.  See,  the  stake  is  ready: 

And  I  am  ready  too. 

Don  Silva. 

It  shall  not  be  ! 

(liaising  his  sword  he  rushes  in  front  of  the 
guards  who  are  advancing ,  and  impedes 

them.) 

If  you  are  human,  Chief,  hear  my  demand ! 

Stretch  not  my  soul  upon  the  endless  rack 
Of  this  man’s  torture ! 

Zarca. 

Stand  aside,  my  lord ! 

Put  up  your  sword.  You  vowed  obedience 
To  me,  your  chief.  It  was  your  latest  vow. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


259 


Don  Silva. 

No !  hew  me  from  the  spot,  or  fasten  me 
Amid  the  fagots  too,  if  he  must  burn. 

Zarca. 

What  should  befall  that  persecuting  monk 
Was  fixed  before  you  came  :  no  cruelty, 

No  nicely  measured  torture,  weight  for  weight 
Of  injury,  no  luscious-toothed  revenge 
That  justifies  the  injurer  by  its  joy : 

I  seek  but  rescue  and  security 

For  harmless  men,  and  such  security 

Means  death  to  vipers  and  inquisitors. 

These  fagots  shall  but  innocently  blaze 
In  sign  of  gladness,  when  this  man  is  dead, 

That  one  more  torturer  has  left  the  earth. 

’T  is  not  for  infidels  to  burn  live  men 
And  ape  the  rules  of  Christian  piety. 

This  hard  oppressor  shall  not  die  by  fire : 

He  mounts  the  gibbet,  dies  a  speedy  death, 

That,  like  a  transfixed  dragon,  he  may  cease 

To  vex  mankind.  Quick,  guards,  and  clear  the  path  l 

[As  well-trained  hounds  that  hold  their  fleetness  tense 
In  watchful,  loving  fixity  of  dark  eyes, 

And  move  with  movement  of  their  master’s  will, 

The  Gypsies  with  a  wavelike  swiftness  met 
Around  the  Father,  and  in  wheeling  course 
Passed  beyond  Silva  to  the  gibbet’s  foot, 

Behind  their  chieftain.  Sudden  left  alone 
With  weapon  bare,  the  multitude  aloof, 

Silva  was  mazed  in  doubtful  consciousness, 

As  one  who  slumbering  in  the  day  awakes 
From  striving  into  freedom,  and  yet  feels 
His  sense  half  captive  to  intangible  things ; 

Then  with  a  flush  of  new  decision  sheathed 


260 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


His  futile  naked  weapon,  and  strode  quick 
To  Zarca,  speaking  witli  a  voice  new-toned, 

The  struggling  soul’s  hoarse,  suffocated  cry 
Beneath  the  grappling  anguish  of  despair.] 

Don  Silva. 

Zincalo,  devil,  blackest  infidel ! 

You  cannot  hate  that  man  as  you  hate  me ! 

Finish  your  torture, — take  me,  —  lift  me  up 
And  let  the  crowd  spit  at  me,  —  every  Moor 
Shoot  reeds  at  me,  and  kill  me  with  slow  death 
Beneath  the  midday  fervor  of  the  sun,  — 

Or  crucify  me  with  a  thieving  hound,  — 

Slake  your  hate  so,  and  I  will  thank  it :  spare  me 
Only  this  man ! 

Zarca. 

Madman,  I  hate  you  not. 

But  if  I  did,  my  hate  were  poorly  served 
By  my  device,  if  I  should  strive  to  mix 
A  bitterer  misery  for  you  than  to  taste 
With  leisure  of  a  soul  in  unharmed  limbs 
The  flavor  of  your  folly.  For  my  course, 

It  has  a  goal,  and  takes  no  truant  path 
Because  of  you.  I  am  your  Chief  :  to  me 
You  are  but  a  Zincalo  in  revolt. 

Don  Silva. 

FTo,  I  am  no  Zincalo  !  I  disown 

The  name  I  took  in  madness.  Here  I  tear 

This  badge  away.  I  am  a  Catholic  knight, 

A  Spaniard  who  will  die  a  Spaniard’s  death ! 

[Hark !  while  he  casts  the  badge  upon  the  ground 
And  tramples  on  it,  Silva  hears  a  shout  : 

Was  it  a  shout  that  threatened  him  ?  He  looked 
From  out  the  dizzying  flames  of  his  own  rage 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


261 


In  hope  of  adversaries,  —  and  he  saw  above 

The  form  of  Father  Isidor  upswung 

Convulsed  with  martyr  throes  ;  and  knew  the  shout 

For  wonted  exultation  of  the  crowd 

When  malefactors  die,  —  or  saints,  or  heroes. 

And  now  to  him  that  white-frocked  murdered  form 
Which  hanging  judged  him  as  its  murderer, 

Turned  to  a  symbol  of  his  guilt,  and  stirred 
Tremors  till  then  unwaked.  With  sudden  snatch 
At  something  hidden  in  his  breast,  he  strode 
Right  upon  Zarca :  at  the  instant,  down 
Fell  the  great  Chief,  and  Silva,  staggering  back, 

Heard  not  the  shriek  of  the  Zincali,  felt 

Not  their  fierce  grasp,  —  heard,  felt  but  Zarca*  s  words 

Which  seemed  his  soul  outleaping  in  a  cry 

And  urging  men  to  run  like  rival  waves 

Whose  rivalry  is  but  obedience. 

Zarca  (as  he  falls). 

My  daughter  !  call  her  !  Call  my  daughter ! 

Nadar  (supporting  Za*rca  and  crying  to  the  Gypsies 
who  have  clutched  Silva). 

Stay  l 

Tear  not  the  Spaniard,  tie  him  to  the  stake : 

Hear  what  the  Chief  shall  bid  us, — there  is  time  ! 

[Swiftly  they  tied  him,  pleasing  vengeance  so 
With  promise  that  would  leave  them  free  to  watch 
Their  stricken  good,  their  Chief  stretched  helplessly 
Pillowed  upon  the  strength  of  loving  limbs. 

He  heaved  low  groans,  but  would  not  spend  his  breatL 
In  useless  words  :  he  waited  till  she  came, 

Keeping  his  life  within  the  citadel 

Of  one  great  hope.  And  now  around  him  closed 


262 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


(But  in  wide  circle,  checked  by  loving  fear) 

His  people  all,  holding  their  wails  suppressed 
Lest  death  believed-in  should  be  over-bold : 

All  life  hung  on  their  Chief,  —  he  would  not  die ; 
His  image  gene,  there  were  no  wholeness  left 
To  make  a  world  of  for  Zincali’s  thought. 

Eager  they  stood,  but  hushed ;  the  outer  crowd 
Spoke  only  in  low  murmurs,  and  some  climbed 
And  clung  with  legs  and  arms  on  perilous  coigns, 
Striving  to  see  where  that  colossal  life 
Lay  panting,  —  lay  a  Titan  struggling  still 
To  hold  and  give  the  precious  hidden  fire 
Before  the  stronger  grappled  him.  Above 
The  young  bright  morning  cast  athwart  white  walls 
Her  shadows  blue,  and  with  their  clear-cut  line, 
Mildly  inexorable  as  the  dial-hand’s 
Measured  the  shrinking  future  of  an  hour 
Which  held  a  shrinking  hope.  And  all  the  while 
The  silent  beat  of  time  in  each  man’s  soul 
Made  aching  pulses. 

But  the  cry,  “  She  comes  !  ” 
Parted  the  crowd  like  waters  :  and  she  came. 

Swiftly  as  once  before,  inspired  with  joy, 

She  flashed  across  the  space  and  made  new  light, 
Glowing  upon  the  glow  of  evening, 

So  swiftly  now  she  came,  inspired  with  woe, 

Strong  with  the  strength  of  all  her  father’s  pain, 
Thrilling  her  as  with  fire  of  rage  divine 
And  battling  energy.  She  knew,  —  saw  all : 

The  stake  with  Silva  bound,  —  her  father  pierced,-—* 
To  this  she  had  been  born :  the  second  time 
Her  father  called  her  to  the  task  of  life. 

She  knelt  beside  him.  Then  he  raised  himself, 

And  on  her  face  there  flashed  from  his  the  light 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


263 


As  of  a  star  that  waned  and  flames  anew 
In  mighty  dissolution :  ’t  was  the  flame 
Of  a  surviving  trust,  in  agony. 

He  spoke  the  parting  prayer  that  was  command, 
Must  sway  her  will,  and  reign  invisibly.] 

Zarca. 

My  daughter,  you  have  promised,  —  you  vflll  live 
To  save  our  people.  In  my  garments  here 
I  carry  written  pledges  from  the  Moor  : 

He  will  keep  faith  in  Spain  and  Africa. 

Your  weakness  may  be  stronger  than  my  strength, 
Winning  more  love.  I  cannot  tell  the  end. 

I  held  my  people’s  good  within  my  breast. 

Behold,  now  I  deliver  it  to  you. 

See,  it  still  breathes  unstrangled,  —  if  it  dies, 

Let  not  your  failing  will  be  murderer.  Bise, 

And  tell  our  people  now  I  wait  in  pain,  — 

I  cannot  die  until  I  hear  them  say 
They  will  obey  you. 

[Meek,  she  pressed  her  lips 
With  slow  solemnity  upon  his  brow. 

Sealing  her  pledges.  Firmly  then  she  rose, 

And  met  her  people’s  eyes  with  kindred  gaze, 
Dark-flashing,  fired  by  effort  strenuous 
Trampling  on  pain.] 

Fed  alma. 

Zincali  all,  who  hear  ! 

Your  Chief  is  dying :  I  his  daughter  live 
To  do  his  dying  will.  He  asks  you  now 
To  promise  me  obedience  as  your  Queen, 

That  we  may  seek  the  land  he  won  for  us, 

And  live  the  better  life  for  which  he  toiled. 

Speak  now,  and  All  my  father’s  dying  ear 


m 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


With  promise  that  you  will  obey  him  dead, 

Obeying  me  his  child. 

[Straightway  arose 

A  shout  of  promise,  sharpening  into  cries 
That  seemed  to  plead  despairingly  with  death.] 

The  Zincali. 

We  will  obey  !  Our  Chief  shall  never  die  ! 

We  will  obey  him,  — will  obey  our  Queen ! 

[The  shout  unanimous,  the  concurrent  rush 
Of  many  voices,  quiring  shook  the  air 
With  multitudinous  wave  :  now  rose,  now  fell, 

Then  rose  again,  the  echoes  following  slow, 

As  if  the  scattered  brethren  of  the  tribe 
Had  caught  afar  and  joined  the  ready  vow. 

Then  some  could  hold  no  longer,  but  must  rush 

To  kiss  his  dying  feet,  and  some  to  kiss 

The  hem  of  their  Queen’s  garment.  But  she  raised 

Her  hand  to  hush  them.  “  Hark  !  your  Chief  may  speak 

Another  wish.”  Quickly  she  kneeled  again, 

While  they  upon  the  ground  kept  motionless, 

With  head  outstretched.  They  heard  his  words  ;  for  now. 
Grasping  at  Nadar’s  arm,  he  spoke  more  loud, 

As  one  who,  having  fought  and  conquered,  hurls 
His  strength  away  with  hurling  off  his  shield.] 

Zarca. 

Let  loose  the  Spaniard  !  give  him  back  his  sword  ^ 

He  cannot  move  to  any  vengeance  more,  — 

His  soul  is  locked  ’twixt  two  opposing  crimes. 

I  charge  you  let  him  go  unharmed  and  free 
Now  through  your  midst . 


[With  that  he  sank  again, — 
His  breast  heaved  strongly  tow’rd  sharp  sudden  falls, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


265 


And  all  his  life  seemed  needed  for  each  breath : 
Yet  once  he  spoke.] 


My  daughter,  lay  your  arm 
Beneath  my  head,  —  so,  —  bend  and  breathe  on  me. 

I  cannot  see  you  more,  — the  Night  is  come. 

Be  strong,  —  remember,  —  I  can  only  —  die. 

[His  voice  went  into  silence,  but  his  breast 
Heaved  long  and  moaned :  its  broad  strength  kept  a  life 
That  heard  naught,  saw  naught,  save  what  once  had 
been, 

And  what  might  be  in  days  and  realms  afar,  — 

Which  now  in  pale  procession  faded  on 
Toward  the  thick  darkness.  And  she  bent  above 
In  sacramental  watch  to  see  great  Death, 

Companion  of  her  future,  who  would  wear 
Forever  in  her  eyes  her  father’s  form. 

And  yet  she  knew  that  hurrying  feet  had  gone 
To  do  the  Chief’s  behest,  and  in  her  soul 
He  who  was  once  its  lord  was  being  jarred 
With  loosening  of  cords,  that  would  not  loose 
The  tightening  torture  of  his  anguish.  This,  — 

Oh  she  knew  it !  —  knew  it  as  martyrs  knew 
The  prongs  that  tore  their  flesh,  while  yet  their  tongues 
Refused  the  ease  of  lies.  In  moments  high 
Space  widens  in  the  soul.  And  so  she  knelt, 

Clinging  with  piety  and  awed  resolve 
Beside  this  altar  of  her  father’s  life, 

Seeing  long  travel  under  solemn  suns 
Stretching  beyond  it;  never  turned  her  eyes, 

Yret  felt  that  Silva  passed ;  beheld  his  face 
Pale,  vivid,  all  alone,  imploring  her 
Across  black  waters  fathomless. 


266 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


And  he  passed. 

The  Gypsies  made  wide  pathway,  shrank  aloof 
As  those  who  fear  to  touch  the  thing  they  hate, 

Lest  hate  triumphant,  mastering  all  the  limbs, 

Should  tear,  bite,  crush,  in  spite  of  hindering  wilL 
Slowly  he  walked,  reluctant  to  be  safe 
And  bear  dishonored  life  which  none  assailed ; 
Walked  hesitatingly,  all  his  frame  instinct 
With  high-born  spirit,  never  used  to  dread 
Or  crouch  for  smiles,  yet  stung,  yet  quivering 
With  helpless  strength,  and  in  his  soul  convulsed 
By  visions  where  pale  horror  held  a  lamp 
Over  wide-reaching  crime.  Silence  hung  round  : 

It  seemed  the  Plaga  hushed  itself  to  hear 
His  footsteps  and  the  Chiefs  deep  dying  breath. 

Eyes  quickened  in  the  stillness,  and  the  light 
Seemed  one  clear  gaze  upon  his  misery. 

And  yet  he  could  not  pass  her  without  pause : 

One  instant  he  must  pause  and  look  at  her ; 

But  with  that  glance  at  her  averted  head, 

New-urged  by  pain  he  turned  away  and  went, 
Carrying  forever  with  him  what  he  fled,  — 

Her  murdered  love,  — her  love,  a  dear  wronged  ghost, 
Facing  him,  beauteous,  ’mid  the  throngs  of  hell. 

O  fallen  and  forsaken  !  were  no  hearts 

Amid  that  crowd,  mindful  of  what  had  been  ?  — 

Hearts  such  as  wait  on  beggared  royalty, 

Or  silent  watch  by  sinners  who  despair  ? 

Silva  had  vanished.  That  dismissed  revenge 
Made  larger  room  for  sorrow  in  fierce  hearts ; 

And  sorrow  filled  them.  For  the  Chief  was  dead. 
The  mighty  breast  subsided  slow  to  calm, 

Slow  from  the  face  the  ethereal  spirit  waned, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


267 


As  wanes  the  parting  glory  from  the  heights, 

And  leaves  them  in  their  pallid  majesty. 

Eedalma  kissed  the  marble  lips,  and  said, 

“  He  breathes  no  more.”  And  then  a  long  loud  wail 
Poured  out  upon  the  morning,  made  her  light 
Ghastly  as  smiles  on  some  fair  maniac’s  face 
Smiling  unconscious  o’er  her  bridegroom’s  corse. 

The  wailing  men  in  eager  press  closed  round, 

And  made  a  shadowing  pall  beneath  the  sun. 

They  lifted  reverent  the  prostrate  strength, 

Sceptred  anew  by  death.  Fedalma  walked 
Tearless,  erect,  following  the  dead,  —  her  cries 
Deep  smothering  in  her  breast,  as  one  who  guides 
Her  children  through  the  wilds,  and  sees  and  knows 
Of  danger  more  than  they,  and  feels  more  pangs, 

Yet  shrinks  not,  groans  not,  bearing  in  her  heart 
Their  ignorant  misery  and  their  trust  in  her. 


BOOK  V. 


THE  eastward  rocks  of  Almerfa’s  bay 

Answer  long  farewells  of  the  travelling  sun 
With  softest  glow  as  from  an  inward  pulse 
Changing  and  flushing :  all  the  Moorish  ships 
Seem  conscious  too,  and  shoot  out  sudden  shadows ; 
Their  black  hulls  snatch  a  glory,  and  their  sails 
Show  variegated  radiance,  gently  stirred 
Like  broad  wings  poised.  Two  galleys  moored  apart 
Show  decks  as  busy  as  a  home  of  ants 
Storing  new  forage ;  from  their  sides  the  boats 
Slowly  pushed  off,  anon  with  flashing  oar 
Make  transit  to  the  quay’s  smooth-quarried  edge, 
Where  thronging  Gypsies  are  in  haste  to  lade 
Each  as  it  comes  with  grandames,  babes,  and  wives, 

Or  with  dust-tinted  goods,  the  company 
Of  wandering  years.  Naught  seems  to  lie  unmoved, 
For  ’mid  the  throng  the  lights  and  shadows  play, 

And  make  all  surface  eager,  while  the  boats 

Sway  restless  as  a  horse  that  heard  the  shouts 

And  surging  hum  incessant.  Naked  limbs 

With  beauteous  ease  bend,  lift,  and  throw,  or  raise 

High  signalling  hands.  The  black-haired  mother  steps 

Athwart  the  boat’s  edge,  and  with  opened  arms, 

A  wandering  Isis  outcast  from  the  gods, 

Leans  towards  her  lifted  little  one.  The  boat 
Full-laden  cuts  the  waves,  and  dirge-like  cries 
Rise  and  then  fall  within  it  as  it  moves 
From  high  to  lower  and  from  bright  to  dark. 

Hither  and  thither,  grave  white-turbaned  Moors 
Move  helpfully,  and  some  bring  welcome  gifts. 


270 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Bright  stuffs  and  cutlery,  and  bags  of  seed 
To  make  new  waving  crops  in  Africa. 

Others  aloof  with  folded  arms  slow-eyed 
Survey  man’s  labor,  saying,  “  God  is  great ;  ” 

Or  seek  with  question  deep  the  Gypsies’  root, 

And  whether  their  false  faith,  being  small,  will  prove 
Less  damning  than  the  copious  false  creeds 
Of  Jews  and  Christians:  Moslem  subtlety 
Found  balanced  reasons,  warranting  suspense 
As  to  whose  hell  was  deepest,  —  ’t  was  enough 
That  there  was  room  for  all.  Thus  the  sedate. 

The  younger  heads  were  busy  with  the  tale 
Of  that  great  Chief  whose  exploits  helped  the  Moor. 
And,  talking  still,  they  shouldered  past  their  friends, 
Following  some  lure  which  held  their  distant  gaze 
To  eastward  of  the  quay,  where  yet  remained 
A  low  black  tent  close  guarded  all  around 
By  armed  Zincali.  Fronting  it  above, 

Raised  by  stone  steps  that  sought  a  jutting  strand, 

Fedalma  stood  and  marked  with  anxious  watch 

Each  laden  boat  the  remnant  lessening 

Of  cargo  on  the  shore,  or  traced  the  course 

Of  Nadar  to  and  fro  in  hard  command 

Of  noisy  tumult ;  imaging  oft  anew 

How  much  of  labor  still  deferred  the  hour 

When  they  must  lift  the  boat  and  bear  away 

Her  father’s  coffin,  and  her  feet  must  quit 

This  shore  forever.  Motionless  she  stood, 

Black-crowned  with  wreaths  of  many-shadowed  hair ; 

Black-robed,  but  wearing  wide  upon  her  breast 

Her  father’s  golden  necklace  and  his  badge. 

Her  limbs  were  motionless,  but  in  her  eyes 
And  in  her  breathing  lip’s  soft  tremulous  curve 
Was  intense  motion  as  of  prisoned  fire 
Escaping  subtly  in  outleaping  thought. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


271 


She  watches  anxiously,  and  yet  she  dreams : 

The  busy  moments  now  expand,  now  shrink 
To  narrowing  swarms  within  the  refluent  space 
Of  changeful  consciousness.  For  in  her  thought 
Already  she  has  left  the  fading  shore, 

Sails  with  her  people,  seeks  an  unknown  land, 

And  bears  the  burning  length  of  weary  days 
That  parching  fall  upon  her  father’s  hope, 

Which  she  must  plant  and  see  it  wither  only, — 
Wither  and  die.  She  saw  the  end  begun. 

Zincali  hearts  were  not  unfaithful :  she 
Was  centre  to  the  savage  loyalty 
Which  vowed  obedience  to  Zarca  dead. 

But  soon  their  natures  missed  the  constant  stress 
Of  his  command,  that,  while  it  fired,  restrained 
By  urgency  supreme,  and  left  no  play 
To  fickle  impulse  scattering  desire. 

They  loved  their  Queen,  trusted  in  Zarca’s  child, 
Would  bear  her  o’er  the  desert  on  their  arms 
And  think  the  weight  a  gladsome  victory ; 

But  that  great  force  which  knit  them  into  one, 

The  invisible  passion  of  her  father’s  soul, 

That  wrought  them  visibly  into  its  will, 

And  would  have  bound  their  lives  with  permanence, 
Was  gone.  Already  Hassan  and  two  bands, 

Drawn  by  fresh  baits  of  gain,  had  newly  sold 
Their  service  to  the  Moors,  despite  her  call. 

Known  as  the  echo  of  her  father’s  will, 

To  all  the  tribe,  that  they  should  pass  with  her 
Straightway  to  Telemsan.  They  were  not  moved 
By  worse  rebellion  than  the  wilful  wish 
To  fashion  their  own  service  ;  they  still  meant 
To  come  when  it  should  suit  them.  But  she  said. 
This  is  the  cloud  no  bigger  than  a  hand, 
Sure-threatening.  In  a  little  while,  the  tribe 


272 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


That  was  to  be  the  ensign  of  the  race, 

And  draw  it  into  conscious  union, 

Itself  would  break  in  small  and  scattered  bands 
That,  living  on  scant  prey,  would  still  disperse 
And  propagate  forgetfulness.  Brief  years, 

And  that  great  purpose  fed  with  vital  fire 
That  might  have  glowed  for  half  a  century, 
Subduing,  quickening,  shaping,  like  a  sun,  — 

Would  be  a  faint  tradition,  flickering  low 
In  dying  memories,  fringing  with  dim  light 
The  nearer  dark. 

Far,  far  the  future  stretched 
Beyond  that  busy  present  on  the  quay, 

Far  her  straight  path  beyond  it.  Yet  she  watched 
To  mark  the  growing  hour,  and  yet  in  dream 
Alternate  she  beheld  another  track, 

And  felt  herself  unseen  pursuing  it 
Close  to  a  wanderer,  who  with  haggard  gaze 
Looked  out  on  loneliness.  The  backward  years  — 
Oh  she  would  not  forget  them  —  would  not  drink 
Of  waters  that  brought  rest,  while  he  far  off 
Remembered.  “  Father,  I  renounced  the  joy,  — 

You  must  forgive  the  sorrow.7’ 

So  she  stood, 

Her  struggling  life  compressed  into  that  hour, 
Yearning,  resolving,  conquering ;  though  she  seemed 
Still  as  a  tutelary  image  sent 
To  guard  her  people  and  to  be  the  strength 
Of  some  rock-citadel. 

Below  her  sat 

Slim  mischievous  Hinda,  happy,  red-bedecked 
With  row  of  berries,  grinning,  nodding  oft, 

And  shaking  high  her  small  dark  arm  and  hand 
Responsive  to  the  black-maned  Ismael, 

Who  held  aloft  his  spoil,  and  clad  in  skin? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


273 


Seemed  the  Boy-prophet  of  the  wilderness 
Escaped  from  tasks  prophetic.  But  anon 
Hinda  would  backward  turn  upon  her  knees, 

And  like  a  pretty  loving  hound  would  bend 
To  fondle  her  Queen’s  feet,  then  lift  her  head 
Hoping  to  feel  the  gently  pressing  palm 
Which  touched  the  deeper  sense.  Fedalma  knew,  — 
From  out  the  black  robe  stretched  her  speaking  hand 
And  shared  the  girl’s  content. 

So  the  dire  hours 

Burdened  with  destiny,  —  the  death  of  hopes 
Darkening  long  generations,  or  the  birth 
Of  thoughts  undying,  —  such  hours  sweep  along 
In  their  aerial  ocean  measureless 
Myriads  of  little  joys,  that  ripen  sweet 
And  soothe  the  sorrowful  spirit  of  the  world, 
Groaning  and  travailing  with  the  painful  birth 
Of  slow  redemption. 

But  emerging  now 

From  eastward  fringing  lines  of  idling  men 
Quick  Juan  lightly  sought  the  upward  steps 
Behind  Fedalma,  and  two  paces  off, 

With  head  uncovered,  said  in  gentle  tones, 

Lady  Fedalma  !  ”  —  (Juan’s  password  now 
Used  by  no  other,)  and  Fedalma  turned, 

Knowing  who  sought  her.  He  advanced  a  step, 

And  meeting  straight  her  large  calm  questioning  gaze, 
Warned  her  of  some  grave  purport  by  a  face 
That  told  of  trouble.  Lower  still  he  spoke. 

Juan. 

Look  from  me,  lady,  towards  a  moving  form 

That  quits  the  crowd  and  seeks  the  lonelier  strand,  — * 

A  tall  and  gray-clad  pilgrim  .... 

18 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


274 


[Solemnly 

His  low  tones  fell  on  her,  as  if  she  passed 
Into  religious  dimness  among  tombs, 

And  trod  on  names  in  everlasting  rest. 

Lingeringly  she  looked,  and  then  with  voice 
Deep  and  yet  soft,  like  notes  from  some  long  chord 
Responsive  to  thrilled  air,  said :  ] 

Fed  alma 

It  is  he ! 


[Juan  kept  silence  for  a  little  space, 

With  reverent  caution,  lest  his  lighter  grief 
Might  seem  a  wanton  touch  upon  her  pain. 

But  time  was  urging  him  with  visible  flight, 

Changing  the  shadows :  he  must  utter  all.] 

Juan. 

That  man  was  young  when  last  I  pressed  his  hand, — 
In  that  dread  moment  when  he  left  Bedm&r. 

He  has  aged  since  die  week  has  made  him  gray. 

And  yet  1  knew  him  — knew  the  white-streaked  hair 

Before  I  saw  his  face,  as  I  should  know 

The  tear-dimmed  writing  of  a  friend.  See  now,  — 

Does  he  not  linger,  —  pause  ?  —  perhaps  expect  .... 

[Juan  plead  timidly  :  Fedalma’s  eyes 

Flashed ;  and  through  all  her  frame  there  ran  the  shod 

Of  some  sharp-wounding  joy,  like  his  who  hastes 

And  dreads  to  come  too  late,  and  comes  in  time 

To  press  a  loved  hand  dying.  She  was  mute 

And  made  no  gesture  :  all  her  being  paused 

In  resolution,  as  some  leonine  wave 

That  makes  a  moment's  silence  ere  it  leaps.] 

Juan. 

He  came  from  Cartliagena,  in  a  boat 

Too  slight  tor  safety ;  yon  small  two-oared  boat 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


275 


Below  the  rock  ;  the  fisher-boy  within 
Awaits  his  signal.  But  the  pilgrim  waits  .... 

Fed  alma. 

Yes,  I  will  go  !  —  Father,  I  owe  him  this, 

For  loving  me  made  all  his  misery. 

And  we  will  look  once  more,  —  will  say  farewell 

As  in  a  solemn  rite  to  strengthen  us 

For  our  eternal  parting.  Juan,  stay 

Here  in  my  place,  to  warn  me  were  there  need. 

And,  Hinda,  follow  me  ! 

[All  men  who  watched 
Lost  her  regretfully,  then  drew  content 
From  thought  that  she  must  quickly  come  again, 

And  filled  the  time  with  striving  to  be  near. 

She,  down  the  steps,  along  the  sandy  brink 
To  where  he  stood,  walked  firm ;  with  quickened  step 
The  moment  when  each  felt  the  other  saw. 

He  moved  at  sight  of  her  :  their  glances  met ; 

It  seemed  they  could  no  more  remain  aloof 
Than  nearing  waters  hurrying  into  one. 

Yet  their  steps  slackened  and  they  paused  apart, 
Pressed  backward  by  the  force  of  memories 
Which  reigned  supreme  as  death  above  desire. 

Two  paces  off  they  stood  and  silently 
Looked  at  each  other.  Was  it  well  to  speak  ? 

Could  speech  be  clearer,  stronger,  tell  them  more 
Than  that  long  gaze  of  their  renouncing  love  ? 

They  passed  from  silence  hardly  knowing  how ; 

It  seemed  they  heard  each  other’s  thought  before,  j 

Don  Silva. 

I  go  to  be  absolved,  to  have  my  life 
Washed  into  fitness  for  an  offering 
To  injured  Spain.  But  I  have  naught  to  give 


276 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


For  that  last  injury  to  her  I  loved 
Better  than  I  loved  Spain.  I  am  accurst 
Above  all  sinners,  being  made  the  curse 
Of  her  I  sinned  for.  Pardon !  Penitence  ! 

When  they  have  done  their  utmost,  still  beyond 
Out  of  their  reach  stands  Injury  unchanged 
And  changeless.  I  should  see  it  still  in  heaven,  — 
Out  of  my  reach,  forever  in  my  sight : 

Wearing  your  grief,  ’t  would  hide  the  smiling  seraphs 
I  bring  no  puling  prayer,  Fedalma,  —  ask 
No  balm  of  pardon  that  may  soothe  my  soul 
For  others’  bleeding  wounds :  I  am  not  come 
To  say,  “  Forgive  me  :  ”  you  must  not  forgive, 

For  you  must  see  me  ever  as  I  am,  — 

Your  father’s  .... 


Fedalma. 

Speak  it  not !  Calamity 
Comes  like  a  deluge  and  o’erfloods  our  crimes, 
Till  sin  is  hidden  in  woe.  You  —  I  —  we  two, 
Grasping  we  knew  not  what,  that  seemed  delight, 
Opened  the  sluices  of  that  deep. 

Don  Silva. 

We  two  A— 

Fedalma,  you  were  blameless,  helpless. 

Fedalma. 

No* 

It  shall  not  be  that  you  did  aught  alone. 

For  when  we  loved  I  willed  to  reign  in  you, 

And  I  was  jealous  even  of  the  day 
If  it  could  gladden  you  apart  from  me. 

And  so,  it  must  be  that  I  shared  each  deed 
Our  love  was  root  of. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


277 


Don  Silva. 

Dear !  you  share  the  woe, 
Nay,  the  worst  dart  of  vengeance  fell  on  you. 


Fed  alma. 

Vengeance  !  She  does  but  sweep  us  with  her  skirts, — 
She  takes  large  space,  and  lies  a  baleful  light 
Devolving  with  long  years,  —  sees  children’s  children, 
Blights  them  in  their  prime.  Oh,  if  two  lovers  leaned 
To  breathe  one  air  and  spread  a  pestilence, 

They  would  but  lie  two  livid  victims  dead 
Amid  the  city  of  the  dying.  We 
With  our  poor  petty  lives  have  strangled  one 
That  ages  watch  for  vainly. 

Don  Silva. 

Deep  despair 

Fills  all  your  tcnes  as  with  slow  agony. 

Speak  words  that  narrow  anguish  to  some  shape : 

Tell  me  what  dread  is  close  before  you  ? 


Fed  alma. 


None. 


No  dread,  but  clear  assurance  of  the  end. 
My  father  held  within  his  mighty  frame 
A  people’s  life :  great  futures  died  with  him 
Never  to  rise,  until  the  time  shall  ripe 
Some  other  hero  with  the  will  to  save 
The  lost  Zincali. 


Don  Silva. 

Yet  your  people’s  shout - 
I  heard  it  —  sounded  as  the  plenteous  rush 
Of  full  fed  sources,  shaking  their  wild  souls 
With  power  that  promised  sway. 


278 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Fed  alma. 

Ah  yes,  that  shout 

Came  from  full  hearts  :  they  meant  obedience. 

But  they  are  orphaned :  their  poor  childish  feet 
Are  vagabond  in  spite  of  love,  and  stray 
Forgetful  after  little  lures.  For  me,  — 

I  am  but  as  the  funeral  urn  that  bears 
The  ashes  of  a  leader. 

Don  Silva. 

0  great  God! 

What  am  I  but  a  miserable  brand 
Lit  by  mysterious  wrath  ?  I  lie  cast  down 
A  blackened  branch  upon  the  desolate  ground 
Where  once  I  kindled  ruin.  I  shall  drink 
No  cup  of  purest  water  but  will  taste 
Bitter  with  thy  lone  hopelessness,  Fedalma. 

Fed  alma. 

Nay,  Silva,  think  of  me  as  one  who  sees 
A  light  serene  and  strong  on  one  sole  path 

Which  she  will  tread  till  death . 

He  trusted  me,  and  I  will  keep  his  trust : 

My  life  shall  be  its  temple.  I  will  plant 
His  sacred  hope  within  the  sanctuary 
And  die  its  priestess,  —  though  I  die  alone, 

A  hoary  woman  on  the  altar  step, 

Cold  ’mid  cold  ashes.  That  is  my  chief  good. 

The  deepest  hunger  of  a  faithful  heart 
Is  faithfulness.  Wish  me  naught  else.  And  you, 
You  too  will  live . 


Don  Silva. 

I  go  to  Rome,  to  seek 
The  right  to  use  my  knightly  sword  again ; 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


279 


The  right  to  fill  my  place  and  live  or  die 
So  that  all  Spaniards  shall  not  curse  my  name. 

I  sat  one  hour  upon  the  barren  rock 
And  longed  to  kill  myself ;  but  then  I  said, 

I  will  not  leave  my  name  in  infamy, 

I  will  not  be  perpetual  rottenness 

Upon  the  Spaniard’s  air.  If  I  must  sink 

At  last  to  hell,  I  will  not  take  my  stand 

Among  the  coward  crew  who  could  not  bear 

The  harm  themselves  had  done,  which  others  bore. 

My  young  life  yet  may  fill  some  bloody  breach, 

And  I  will  take  no  pardon,  not  my  own, 

Not  God’s,  —  no  pardon  idly  on  my  knees ; 

But  it  shall  come  to  me  upon  my  feet 
And  in  the  thick  of  action,  and  each  deed 
That  carried  shame  and  wrong  shall  be  the  sting 
That  drives  me  higher  up  the  steep  of  honor 
In  deeds  of  duteous  service  to  that  Spain 
Who  nourished  me  on  her  expectant  breast, 

The  heir  of  highest  gifts.  I  will  not  fling 
My  earthly  being  down  for  carrion 
To  fill  the  air  with  loathing  :  I  will  be 
The  living  prey  of  some  fierce  noble  death 
That  leaps  upon  me  while  I  move.  Aloud 
I  said,  “  I  will  redeem  my  name,”  and  then,  — 

I  know  not  if  aloud :  I  felt  the  words 
Drinking  up  all  my  senses,  —  “  She  still  lives. 

I  would  not  quit  the  dear  familiar  earth 
Where  both  of  us  behold  the  selfsame  sun, 

Where  there  can  be  no  strangeness  ’twixt  our  thoughts 

So  deep  as  their  communion.”  Resolute 

I  rose  and  walked.  —  Fedalma,  think  of  me 

As  one  who  will  regain  the  only  life 

Where  he  is  other  than  apostate,  —  one 

Who  seeks  but  to  renew  and  keep  the  vows 


280 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Of  Spanish,  knight  and  noble.  But  the  breach 
Outside  those  vows  — -  the  fatal  second  breach  — 

Lies  a  dark  gulf  where  I  have  naught  to  cast, 

Not  even  expiation,  —  poor  pretence, 

Which  changes  naught  but  what  survives  the  past, 
And  raises  not  the  dead.  That  deep  dark  gulf 
Divides  us. 

Fed  alma. 

Yes,  forever.  We  must  walk 
Apart  unto  the  end.  Our  marriage  rite 
Is  our  resolve  that  we  will  each  be  true 
To  high  allegiance,  higher  than  our  love,  — ■ 

Our  dear  young  love,  —  its  breath  was  happiness ! 

But  it  had  grown  upon  a  larger  life 

Which  tore  its  roots  asunder.  We  rebelled,— 

The  larger  life  subdued  us.  Yet  we  are  wed ; 

For  we  shall  carry  each  the  pressure  deep 
Of  the  other’s  soul.  I  soon  shall  leave  the  shore 
The  winds  to-night  will  bear  me  far  away. 

My  lord,  farewell ! 

[He  did  not  say  “  Farewell.” 

But  neither  knew  that  he  was  silent.  She, 

For  one  long  moment,  moved  not.  They  knew  naught 
Save  that  they  parted ;  for  their  mutual  gaze 
As  with  their  soul’s  full  speech  forbade  their  hands 
To  seek  each  other,  —  those  oft-clasping  hands 
Which  had  a  memory  of  their  own,  and  went 
Widowed  of  one  dear  touch  forevermore. 

At  last  she  turned  and  with  swift  movement  passed, 
Beckoning  to  Hinda,  who  was  bending  low 
And  lingered  still  to  wash  her  shells,  but  soon 
Leaping  and  scampering  followed,  while  her  Queen 
Mounted  the  steps  again  and  took  her  place. 

Which  Juan  rendered  silently. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 


281 


And  now 

The  press  upon  the  quay  was  thinned ;  the  ground 
Was  cleared  of  cumbering  heaps,  the  eager  shouts 
Had  sunk,  and  left  a  murmur  more  restrained 
By  common  purpose.  All  the  men  ashore 
Were  gathering  into  ordered  companies, 

And  with  less  clamor  filled  the  waiting  boats, 

As  if  the  speaking  light  commanded  them 
To  quiet  speed :  for  now  the  farewell  glow 
Was  on  the  topmost  heights,  and  where  far  ships 
Were  southward  tending,  tranquil,  slow,  and  whit! 
Upon  the  luminous  meadow  toward  the  verge. 

The  quay  was  in  still  shadow,  and  the  boats 
Went  sombrely  upon  the  sombre  waves. 

Fedalma  watched  again ;  but  now  her  gaze 
Takes  in  the  eastward  bay,  where  that  small  bark 
Which  held  the  fisher  boy  floats  weightier 
With  one  more  life,  that  rests  upon  the  oar 
Watching  with  her.  He  would  not  go  away 
Till  she  was  gone ;  he  would  not  turn  his  face 
Away  from  her  at  parting :  Dat  the  sea 
Should  widen  slowly  ’twixt  their  seeking  eyes. 

The  time  was  coming.  Nadar  had  approached. 

Was  the  Queen  ready  ?  Would  she  follow  now 
Her  father’s  body?  For  the  largest  boat 
Was  waiting  at  the  quay,  the  last  strong  band 
Of  armed  Zincali  ranged  themselves  in  lines 
To  guard  her  passage  and  to  follow  her. 

“  Yes,  I  am  ready  j  ”  and  with  action  prompt 
They  cast  aside  the  Gypsy’s  wandering  tomb, 

And  fenced  the  space  from  curious  Moors  who  presses 
To  see  Chief  Zarca’s  coffin  as  it  lay. 

They  raised  it  slowly,  holding  it  aloft 
On  shoulders  proud  to  bear  the  heavy  load. 


282 


i'OEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Bound  on  the  coffin  lay  the  chieftain’s  arms, 

His  Gypsy  garments  and  his  coat  of  mail. 
Fedalma  saw  the  burden  lifted  high, 

And  then  descending  followed.  All  was  still. 

The  Moors  aloof  could  hear  the  struggling  steps 
Beneath  the  lowered  burden  at  the  boat,  — 

The  struggling  calls  subdued,  till  safe  released 
It  lay  within,  the  space  around  it  filled 
By  black-haired  Gypsies.  Then  Fedalma  stepped 
From  off  the  shore  and  saw  it  flee  away,  — 

The  land  that  bred  her  helping  the  resolve 
Which  exiled  her  forever. 

It  was  night 

Before  the  ships  weighed  anchor  and  gave  sail : 
Fresh  Night  emergent  in  her  clearness,  lit 
By  the  large  crescent  moon,  with  Hesperus 
And  those  great  stars  that  lead  the  eager  host. 
Fedalma  stood  and  watched  the  little  bark 
Lying  jet-black  upon  moon-whitened  waves. 

Silva  was  standing  too.  He  too  divined 
A  steadfast  form  that  held  him  with  its  thought; 
And  eyes  that  sought  him  vanishing :  he  saw 
The  waters  widen  slowly,  till  at  last 
Straining  he  gazed  and  knew  not  if  he  gazed 
On  aught  but  blackness  overhung  by  stars.] 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL. 


TTTHEN  Cain  was  driven  from  Jehovah’s  land 
V  V  He  wandered  eastward,  seeking  some  far  strand 
.Ruled  by  kind  gods  who  asked  no  offerings 
Save  pure  field-fruits,  as  aromatic  things, 

To  feed  the  subtler  sense  of  frames  divine 
That  lived  on  fragrance  for  their  food  and  wine : 

Wild  joyous  gods,  who  winked  at  faults  and  folly, 

And  could  be  pitiful  and  melancholy. 

He  never  had  a  doubt  that  such  gods  were ; 

He  looked  within,  and  saw  them  mirrored  there- 
Some  think  he  came  at  last  to  Tartary, 

And  some  to  Ind ;  but,  howsoe’er  it  be, 

His  staff  he  planted  where  sweet  waters  ran, 

And  in  that  home  of  Cain  the  Arts  began. 


Man’s  life  was  spacious  in  the  early  world : 

It  paused,  like  some  slow  ship  with  sail  unfurled 
Waiting  in  seas  by  scarce  a  wavelet  curled ; 

Beheld  the  slow  star-paces  of  the  skies, 

And  grew  from  strength  to  strength  through  centuries ; 
Saw  infant  trees  fill  out  their  giant  limbs, 

And  heard  a  thousand  times  the  sweet  bird’s  marriage 
hymns. 

In  Cain’s  young  city  none  had  heard  of  Death 
Save  him,  the  founder  ;  and  it  was  his  faith 
That  here,  away  from  harsh  Jehovah’s  law, 

Man  was  immortal,  since  no  halt  or  flaw 
In  Cain’s  own  frame  betrayed  six  hundred  yeara, 


284 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


But  dark  as  pines  that  autumn  never  sears 
His  locks  thronged  backward  as  he  ran,  his  framfc 
Rose  like  the  orb^d  sun  each  morn  the  same, 
Lake-mirrored  to  his  gaze ;  and  that  red  brand, 

The  scorching  impress  of  Jehovah’s  hand, 

Was  still  clear-edged  to  his  unwearied  eye, 

Its  secret  firm  in  time-fraught  memory. 

He  said,  “  My  happy  offspring  shall  not  know 
That  the  red  life  from  out  a  man  may  flow 
When  smitten  by  his  brother.”  True,  his  race 
Bore  each  one  stamped  upon  his  new-born  face 
A.  copy  of  the  brand  no  whit  less  clear  ; 

But  every  mother  held  that  little  copy  dear. 

Thus  generations  in  glad  idlesse  throve, 

Nor  hunted  prey,  nor  with  each  other  strove  ; 

For  clearest  springs  were  plenteous  in  the  land, 

And  gourds  for  cups ;  the  ripe  fruits  sought  the  hand. 
Bending  the  laden  boughs  with  fragrant  gold  5 
And  for  their  roofs  and  garments  wealth  untold 
Lay  everywhere  in  grasses  and  broad  leaves : 

They  labored  gently,  as  a  maid  who  weaves 
Her  hair  in  mimic  mats,  and  pauses  oft 
And  strokes  across  her  palm  the  tresses  soft, 

Then  peeps  to  watch  the  poised  butterfly, 

Or  little  burdened  ants  that  homeward  hie. 

Time  was  but  leisure  to  their  lingering  thought, 

There  was  no  need  for  haste  to  finish  aught ; 

But  sweet  beginnings  were  repeated  still 
Like  infant  babblings  that  no  task  fulfil ; 

For  love,  that  loved  not  change,  constrained  the  simple 

will. 

Till,  hurling  stones  in  mere  athletic  joy, 

Strong  Lamecli  struck  and  killed  his  fairest  boy, 

And  tried  to  wake  him  with  the  tenderest  cries, 


THE  LEGEND  GE  JUBAL. 


28ti 


And  fetched  and  held  before  the  glazed  eyes 
The  things  they  best  had  loved  to  look  upon  j 
But  never  glance  or  smile  or  sigh  he  won. 

The  generations  stood  around  those  twain 
Helplessly  gazing,  till  their  father  Cain 
Parted  the  press,  and  said,  “  He  will  not  wake  \ 

This  is  the  endless  sleep,  and  we  must  make 
A  bed  deep  down  for  him  beneath  the  sod  ; 

For  know,  my  sons,  there  is  a  mighty  God 
Angry  with  all  man’s  race,  but  most  with  me. 

I  fled  from  out  His  land  in  vain  !  —  ’t  is  He 
Who  came  and  slew  the  lad,  for  He  has  found 
This  home  of  ours,  and  we  shall  all  be  bound 
By  the  harsh  bands  of  His  most  cruel  will, 

Which  any  moment  may  some  dear  one  kill. 

Nay,  though  we  live  for  countless  moons,  at  last 
We  and  all  ours  shall  dm  like  summers  past. 

This  is  Jehovah’s  will,  and  He  is  strong; 

I  thought  the  way  I  travelled  was  too  long 
For  Him  to  follow  me  :  my  thought  was  vain  ! 

He  walks  unseen,  but  leaves  a  track  of  pain, 

Pale  Death  His  footprint  is,  and  He  will  come  again ! 

And  a  new  spirit  from  that  hour  came  o’er 
The  race  of  Cain :  soft  idlesse  was  no  more, 

But  even  the  sunshine  had  a  heart  of  care, 

Smiling  with  hidden  dread  —  a  mother  fair 
Who  folding  to  her  breast  a  dying  child 
Beams  with  feigned  joy  that  but  makes  sadness  mild. 
Death  was  now  lord  of  Life,  and  at  his  word 
Time,  vague  as  air  before,  new  terrors  stirred. 

With  measured  wing  now  audibly  arose 
Throbbing  through  all  things  to  some  unknown  close. 
Now  glad  Content  by  clutching  Haste  was  torn, 

And  Woi-k  grew  eager,  and  Device  was  born. 


286 


POEMS  OF  GEOKGE  ELIOT. 


It  seemed  the  light  was  never  loved  before, 

Now  each  man  said,  “  T  will  go  and  come  no  more.” 
No  budding  branch,  no  pebble  from  the  brook, 

No  form,  no  shadow,  but  new  dearness  took 
From  the  one  thought  that  life  must  have  an  end ; 
And  the  last  parting  now  began  to  send 
Diffusive  dread  through  love  and  wedded  bliss. 
Thrilling  them  into  finer  tenderness. 

Then  Memory  disclosed  her  face  divine, 

That  like  the  calm  nocturnal  lights  doth  shine 
Within  the  soul,  and  shows  the  sacred  graves, 

And  shows  the  presence  that  no  sunlight  craves, 

No  space,  no  warmth,  but  moves  among  them  all ; 
Gone  and  yet  here,  and  coming  at  each  call, 

With  ready  voice  and  eyes  that  understand, 

And  lips  that  ask  a  kiss,  and  dear  responsive  hand. 

Thus  to  Cain’s  race  death  was  tear-watered  seed 
Of  various  life  and  action-shaping  need. 

But  chief  the  sons  of  Lamech  felt  the  stings 
Of  new  ambition,  and  the  force  that  springs 
In  passion  beating  on  the  shores  of  fate. 

They  said,  “  There  comes  a  night  when  all  too  late 
The  mind  shall  long  to  prompt  the  achieving  hand, 
The  eager  thought  behind  closed  portals  stand, 

And  the  last  wishes  to  the  mute  lips  press 
Buried  ere  death  in  silent  helplessness. 

Then  while  the  soul  its  way  with  sound  can  cleave, 
And  while  the  arm  is  strong  to  strike  and  heave, 
Let  soul  and  arm  give  shape  that  will  abide 
And  rule  above  our  graves,  and  power  divide 
With  that  great  god  of  day,  whose  rays  must  bend 
As  we  shall  make  the  moving  shadows  tend. 

Come,  let  us  fashion  acts  that  are  to  be, 

When  we  shall  lie  in  darkness  silently, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL. 


287 


As  our  young  brother  doth,  whom  yet  we  see 
Fallen  and  slain,  but  reigning  in  our  will 
By  that  one  image  of  him  pale  and  still.” 

For  Lameclds  sons  were  heroes  of  their  race : 

•Xabal,  the  eldest,  bore  upon  his  face 
The  look  of  that  calm  river-god,  the  Nile, 

Mildly  secure  in  power  that  needs  not  guile. 

But  Tubal-Cain  was  restless  as  the  fire 

That  glows  and  spreads  and  leaps  from  high  to  highei 

Where’er  is  aught  to  seize  or  to  subdue ; 

Strong  as  a  storm  he  lifted  or  overthrew, 

His  urgent  limbs  like  rounded  granite  grew, 

Such  granite  as  the  plunging  torrent  wears 
And  roaring  rolls  around  through  countless  years. 

But  strength  that  still  on  movement  must  be  fed, 
Inspiring  thought  of  change,  devices  bred, 

And  urged  his  mind  through  earth  and  air  to  rove 
For  force  that  he  could  conquer  if  he  strove, 

For  lurking  forms  that  might  new  tasks  fulfil 
And  yield  unwilling  to  his  stronger  will. 

Such  Tubal-Cain.  But  Jubal  had  a  frame 
Fashioned  to  finer  senses,  which  became 
A  yearning  for  some  hidden  soul  of  things, 

Some  outward  touch  complete  on  inner  springs 
That  vaguely  moving  bred  a  lonely  pain, 

A  want  that  did  but  stronger  grow  with  ga  v 
Of  aL  good  else,  as  spirits  might  be  sad 
For  lack  of  speech  to  tell  us  they  are  glad. 

Now  Jabal  learned  to  tame  the  lowing  kine, 

And  from  their  udders  drew  the  snow-white  wine 
That  stirs  the  innocent  joy,  and  makes  the  stream 
Of  elemental  life  with  fulness  teem ; 

The  star-browed  calves  he  nursed  with  feeding  hand, 


288 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


And  sheltered  them,  till  all  the  little  band 
Stood  mustered  gazing  at  the  sunset  way 
Whence  he  would  come  with  store  at  close  of  day. 

He  soothed  the  silly  sheep  with  friendly  tone 
And  reared  their  staggering  lambs  that,  older  grown, 
Followed  his  steps  with  sense-taught  memory ; 

Till  he,  their  shepherd,  could  their  leader  be 
And  guide  them  through  the  pastures  as  he  would, 
With  sway  that  grew  from  ministry  of  good. 

He  spread  his  tents  upon  the  grassy  plain 
Which,  eastward  widening  like  the  open  main, 
Showed  the  first  whiteness  ’neath  the  morning  star ; 
Near  him  his  sister,  deft,  as  women  are, 

Plied  her  quick  skill  in  sequence  to  his  thought 
Till  the  hid  treasures  of  the  milk  she  caught 
Revealed  like  pollen  ’mid  the  petals  white, 

The  golden  pollen,  virgin  to  the  light. 

Even  the  she-wolf  with  young,  on  rapine  bent, 

He  caught  and  tethered  in  his  mat-walled  tent, 

And  cherished  all  her  little  sharp-nosed  young 
Till  the  small  race  with  hope  and  terror  clung 
About  his  footsteps,  till  each  new-reared  brood, 
Remoter  from  the  memories  of  the  wood, 

More  glad  discerned  their  common  home  with  man. 
This  was  the  work  of  J abal :  he  began 
The  pastoral  life,  and,  sire  of  joys  to  be, 

Spread  the  sweet  ties  that  bind  the  family 
O’er  dear  dumb  souls  that  thrilled  at  man’s  caress. 
And  shared  his  pains  with  patient  helpfulness. 

But  Tubal-Cain  had  caught  and  yoked  the  lire, 
Yoked  it  with  stones  that  bent  the  flaming  spire 
And  made  it  roar  in  prisoned  servitude 
Within  the  furnace,  till  with  force  subdued 
It  changed  all  forms  lie  willed  to  work  upon, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JXJBAL. 


289 


Till  hard  from  soft,  and  soft  from  hard,  he  won. 

The  pliant  clay  he  moulded  as  he  would, 

And  laughed  with  joy  when  ’mid  the  heat  it  stood 
Shaped  as  his  hand  had  chosen,  while  the  mass 
That  from  his  hold,  dark,  obstinate,  would  pass, 

He  drew  all  glowing  from  the  busy  heat, 

All  breathing  as  with  life  that  he  could  beat 
With  thundering  hammer,  making  it  obey 
His  will  creative,  like  the  pale  soft  clay. 

Each  day  he  wrought  and  better  than  he  planned, 
Shape  breeding  shape  beneath  his  restless  hand. 
(The  soul  without  still  helps  the  soul  within, 

And  its  deft  magic  ends  what  we  begin.) 

Nay,  in  his  dreams  his  hammer  he  would  wield 
And  seem  to  see  a  myriad  types  revealed, 

Then  spring  with  wondering  triumphant  cry, 

And,  lest  the  inspiring  vision  should  go  by, 

Would  rush  to  labor  with  that  plastic  zeal 
Which  all  the  passion  of  our  life  can  steal 
For  force  to  work  with.  Each  day  saw  the  birth 
Of  various  forms  which,  flung  upon  the  earth, 
Seemed  harmless  toys  to  cheat  the  exacting  hour, 
But  were  as  seeds  instinct  with  hidden  power. 

The  axe,  the  club,  the  spiked  wheel,  the  chain, 

Held  silently  the  shrieks  and  moans  of  pain  ; 

And  near  them  latent  lay  in  share  and  spade, 

In  the  strong  bar,  the  saw,  and  deep-curved  blade, 
Glad  voices  of  the  hearth  and  harvest-home, 

The  social  good,  and  all  earth’s  joy  to  come. 

Thus  to  mixed  ends  wrought  Tubal ;  and  they  say. 
Some  things  he  made  have  lasted  to  this  day ; 

As,  thirty  silver  pieces  that  were  found 
By  Noah’s  children  buried  in  the  ground. 

He  made  them  from  mere  hunger  of  device, 

Those  small  white  disks ;  but  they  became  the  price 

19 


290 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  traitor  Judas  sold  his  Master  for  5 
And  men  still  handling  them  in  peace  and  war 
Catch  foul  disease,  that  comes  as  appetite, 

And  lurks  and  clings  as  withering,  damning  blight. 
But  Tubal-Cain  wot  not  of  treachery, 

Nor  greedy  lust,  nor  any  ill  to  be, 

Save  the  one  ill  of  sinking  into  naught, 

Banished  from  action  and  act-shaping  thought. 

He  was  the  sire  of  swift-transforming  skill, 

Which  arms  for  conquest  man’s  ambitious  will ; 

And  round  him  gladly,  as  his  hammer  rung, 
Gathered  the  elders  and  the  growing  young : 

These  handled  vaguely  and  those  plied  the  tools, 

Till,  happy  chance  begetting  conscious  rules, 

The  home  of  Cain  with  industry  was  rife, 

And  glimpses  of  a  strong  persistent  life, 

Panting  through  generations  as  one  breath, 

And  filling  with  its  soul  the  blank  of  death. 

Jubal,  too,  watched  the  hammer,  till  his  eyes, 

No  longer  following  its  fall  or  rise, 

Seemed  glad  with  something  that  they  could  not  see. 
But  only  listened  to  —  some  melody. 

Wherein  dumb  longings  inward  speech  had  found, 
Won  from  the  common  store  of  struggling  sound. 
Then,  as  the  metal  shapes  more  various  grew, 

And,  hurled  upon  each  other,  resonance  drew, 

Each  gave  new  tones,  the  revelations  dim 
Of  some  external  soul  that  spoke  for  him : 

The  hollow  vessel’s  clang,  the  clash,  the  boom, 

Like  light  that  makes  wide  spiritual  room 
And  skyey  spaces  in  the  spaceless  thought, 

To  Jubal  such  enlarged  passion  brought 
That  love,  hope,  rage,  and  all  experience, 

Were  fused  in  vaster  being,  fetching  thence 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL 


291 


Concords  and  discords,  cadences  and  cries 

That  seemed  from  some  world-shrouded  soul  to  rise, 

Some  rapture  more  intense,  some  mightier  rage, 

Some  living  sea  that  burst  the  bounds  of  man’s  brief  age. 

Then  with  such  blissful  trouble  and  glad  care 
For  growth  within  unborn  as  mothers  bear, 

To  the  far  woods  he  wandered,  listening, 

And  heard  the  birds  their  little  stories  sing 
In  notes  whose  rise  and  fall  seemed  melted  speech  — 
Melted  with  tears,  smiles,  glances  —  that  can  reach 
More  quickly  through  our  frame’s  deep-winding  night, 
And  without  thought  raise  thought’s  best  fruit,  delight 
Pondering,  he  sought  his  home  again  and  heard 
The  fluctuant  changes  of  the  spoken  word : 

The  deep  remonstrance  and  the  argued  want, 

Insistent  first  in  close  monotonous  chant, 

Next  leaping  upward  to  defiant  stand 
Or  downward  beating  like  the  resolute  hand ; 

The  mother’s  call,  the  children’s  answering  cry, 

The  laugh’s  light  cataract  tumbling  from  on  high; 

The  suasive  repetitions  Jabal  taught, 

That  timid  browsing  cattle  homeward  brought ; 

The  clear-winged  fugue  of  echoes  vanishing ; 

And  through  them  all  the  hammer’s  rhythmic  ring. 

Jubal  sat  lonely,  all  around  was  dim, 

Yet  his  face  glowed  with  light  revealed  to  him: 

For  as  the  delicate  stream  of  odor  wakes 

The  thought-wed  sentience  and  some  image  makes 

From  out  the  mingled  fragments  of  the  past, 

Finely  compact  in  wholeness  that  will  last, 

So  streamed  as  from  the  body  of  each  sound 
Subtler  pulsations,  swift  as  warmth,  which  found 
All  prisoned  germs  and  all  their  powers  unbound, 

Till  thought  self-luminous  flamed  from  memory. 


292  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

And  in  creative  vision  wandered  free. 

Then  Jubal,  standing,  rapturous  arms  upraised, 

And  on  the  dark  with  eager  eyes  he  gazed, 

As  had  some  manifested  god  been  there. 

It  was  his  thought  he  saw :  the  presence  fair 
Of  unachieved  achievement,  the  high  task, 

The  struggling  unborn  spirit  that  doth  ask 
With  irresistible  cry  for  blood  and  breath, 

Till  feeding  its  great  life  we  sink  in  death. 

He  said,  “  Were  now  those  mighty  tones  and  cries 
That  from  the  giant  soul  of  earth  arise, 

Those  groans  of  some  great  travail  heard  from  far, 
Some  power  at  wrestle  with  the  things  that  are, 
Those  sounds  which  vary  with  the  varying  form 
Of  clay  and  metal,  and  in  sightless  swarm 
Fill  the  wide  space  with  tremors :  were  these  wed 
To  human  voices  with  such  passion  fed 
As  does  put  glimmer  in  our  common  speech, 

But  might  flame  out  in  tones  whose  changing  reach, 
Surpassing  meagre  need,  informs  the  sense 
With  fuller  union,  finer  difference  — 

Were  this  great  vision,  now  obscurely  bright 
As  morning  hiiis  that  melt  in  new-poured  light, 
Wrought  into  solid  form  and  living  sound, 

Moving  with  ordered  throb  and  sure  rebound, 

Then  —  Nay,  I  Jubal  will  that  work  begin! 

The  generations  of  our  race  shall  win 

New  life,  that  grows  from  out  the  heart  of  this, 

As  spring  from  winter,  or  as  lovers’  bliss 

From  out  the  dull  unknown  of  unwaked  energies.” 

Thus  he  resolved,  and  in  the  soul-fed  light 
Of  coming  ages  waited  through  the  night, 

Watching  for  that  near  dawn  whose  chilier  ray 


TTIE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL. 


29 


Showed  but  the  unchanged  world  of  yesterday ; 
Where  all  the  order  of  his  dream  divine 
Lay  like  Olympian  forms  within  the  mine ; 

Where  fervor  that  could  fill  the  earthly  round 
With  thronged  joys  of  form-begotten  sound 
Must  shrink  intense  within  the  patient  power 
That  lonely  labors  through  the  niggard  hour. 

Such  patience  have  the  heroes  who  begin, 

Sailing  the  first  to  lands  which  others  win. 

Jubal  must  dare  as  great  beginners  dare, 

Strike  form’s  first  way  in  matter  rude  and  bare, 
And,  yearning  vaguely  toward  the  plenteous  quire 
Of  the  world’s  harvest,  make  one  poor  small  lyre. 
He  made  it,  and  from  out  its  measured  frame 
Drew  the  harmonic  soul,  whose  answers  came 
With  guidance  sweet  and  lessons  of  delight 
Teaching  to  ear  and  hand  the  blissful  Eight, 

Where  strictest  law  is  gladness  to  the  sense 
And  all  desire  bends  toward  obedience. 

Then  Jubal  poured  his  triumph  in  a  song  — 

The  rapturous  word  that  rapturous  notes  prolong 
As  radiance  streams  from  smallest  things  that  burn 
Or  thought  of  loving  into  love  doth  turn. 

And  still  his  lyre  gave  companionship 
In  sense-taught  concert  as  of  lip  with  lip. 

Alone  amid  the  hills  at  first  he  tried 

His  winged  song  ;  then  with  adoring  pride 

And  bridegroom’s  joy  at  leading  forth  his  bride, 

He  said,  “  This  wonder  which  my  soul  hath  found, 
This  heart  of  music  in  the  might  of  sound, 

Shall  forthwith  be  the  share  of  all  our  race 
And  like  the  morning  gladden  common  space  : 

The  song  shall  spread  and  swell  as  rivers  do, 

And  I  will  teach  our  youth  with  skill  to  woo 


294 


POEMS  OF  GEOPtGE  ELIOT. 


This  living  lyre,  to  know  its  secret  will, 

Its  fine  division  of  the  good  and  ill. 

So  shall  men  call  me  sire  of  harmony, 

And  where  great  Song  is,  there  my  life  shall  be.” 

Thus  glorying  as  a  god  beneficent, 

Forth  from  his  solitary  joy  he  went 
To  bless  mankind.  It  was  at  evening, 

When  shadows  lengthen  from  each  westward  thing, 
When  imminence  of  change  makes  sense  more  fine 
And  light  seems  holier  in  its  grand  decline. 

The  fruit-trees  wore  their  studded  coronal, 

Earth  and  her  children  were  at  festival, 

Glowing  as  with  one  heart  and  one  consent  — 

Thought,  love,  trees,  rocks,  in  sweet  warm  radiance  blent 

The  tribe  of  Cain  was  resting  on  the  ground, 

The  various  ages  wreathed  in  one  broad  round. 

Here  lay,  while  children  peeped  o’er  his  huge  thighs, 
The  sinewy  man  embrowned  by  centuries ; 

Here  the  broad-bosomed  mother  of  the  strong 
Looked,  like  Demeter,  placid  o’er  the  throng 
Of  young  lithe  forms  whose  rest  was  movement  too  — 
Tricks,  prattle,  nods,  and  laughs  that  lightly  flew, 

And  swayings  as  of  flower-beds  where  Love  blew. 

For  all  had  feasted  well  upon  the  flesh 
Of  juicy  fruits,  on  nuts,  and  honey  fresh, 

A.nd  now  their  wine  was  health-bred  merriment, 

Which  through  the  generations  circling  went, 

Leaving  none  sad,  for  even  father  Cain 
Smiled  as  a  Titan  might,  despising  pain. 

Jabal  sat  climbed  on  by  a  playful  ring 
Of  children,  lambs,  and  whelps,  whose  gambolling, 

With  tiny  hoofs,  paws,  hands,  and  dimpled  feet, 

Made  barks,  bleats,  laughs,  in  pretty  hubbub  meet. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL. 


295 


But  Tubal’s  hammer  rang  from  far  away, 

Tubal  alone  would  keep  no  holiday, 

His  furnace  must  not  slack  for  any  feast, 

For  of  all  hardship  work  he  counted  least; 

He  scorned  all  rest  but  sleep,  where  every  dream 
Made  his  repose  more  potent  action  seem. 

Yet  with  health’s  nectar  some  strange  thirst  was  blent. 
The  fateful  growth,  the  unnamed  discontent, 

The  inward  shaping  toward  some  unborn  power, 

Some  deeper-breathing  act,  the  being’s  flower. 

After  all  gestures,  words,  and  speech  of  eyes, 

The  soul  had  more  to  tell,  and  broke  in  sighs. 

Then  from  the  east,  with  glory  on  his  head 
Such  as  low-slanting  beams  on  corn-waves  spread, 

Came  Jubal  with  his  lyre :  there  ’mid  the  throng, 
Where  the  blank  space  was,  poured  a  solemn  song, 
Touching  his  lyre  to  full  harmonic  throb 
And  measured  pulse,  with  cadences  that  sob,, 

Exult  and  cry,  and  search  the  inmost  deep 
Where  the  dark  sources  of  new  passion  sleep. 

Joy  took  the  air,  and  took  each  breathing  soul, 
Embracing  them  in  one  entranced  whole, 

Yet  thrilled  each  varying  frame  to  various  ends, 

As  Spring  new-waking  through  the  creature  sends 
Or  rage  or  tenderness  ;  more  plenteous  life 
Here  breeding  dread,  and  there  a  fiercer  strife. 

He  who  had  lived  through  twice  three  centuries, 
Whose  months  monotonous,  like  trees  on  trees, 

In  hoary  forests,  stretched  a  backward  maze, 

Dreamed  himself  dimly  through  the  travelled  days 
Till  in  clear  light  he  paused,  and  felt  the  sun 
That  warmed  him  when  he  was  a  little  one ; 

Felt  that  true  heaven,  the  recovered  past, 

The  dear  small  Known  amid  the  Unknown  vast, 


296 


ljOEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


And  in  that  heaven  wept.  But  younger  limbs 
Thrilled  toward  the  future,  that  bright  land  which  swims 
In  western  glory,  isles  and  streams  and  bays, 

Where  hidden  pleasures  float  in  golden  haze. 

And  in  all  these  the  rhythmic  influence, 

Sweetly  o’ercharging  the  delighted  sense, 

Flowed  out  in  movements,  little  waves  that  spread 

Enlarging,  till  in  tidal  union  led 

The  youths  and  maidens  both  alike  long-tressed. 

By  grace-inspiring  melody  possessed,- 
Rose  in  slow  dance,  with  beauteous  floating  swerve 
Of  limbs  and  hair,  and  many  a  melting  curve 
Of  ringed  feet  swayed  by  each  close-linked  palm : 

Then  Jubal  poured  more  rapture  in  his  psalm, 

The  dance  fired  music,  music  fired  the  dance, 

The  glow  diffusive  lit  each  countenance, 

Till  all  the  gazing  elders  rose  and  stood 
With  glad  yet  awful  shock  of  that  mysterious  good. 
Even  Tubal  caught  the  sound,  and  wondering  came, 
Urging  his  sooty  bulk  like  smoke-wrapt  flame 
Till  he  could  see  his  brother  with  the  lyre, 

The  work  for  which  he  lent  his  furnace-fire 
And  diligent  hammer,  witting  naught  of  this  — 

This  power  in  metal  shape  which  made  strange  bliss, 
Entering  within  him  like  a  dream  full-fraught 
With  new  creations  finished  in  a  thought. 

The  sun  had  sunk,  but  music  still  was  there, 

And  when  this  ceased,  still  triumph  filled  the  air : 

It  seemed  the  stars  were  shining  with  delight 
And  that  no  night  was  ever  like  this  night. 

All  clung  with  praise  to  Jubal:  some  besought 
That  he  would  teach  them  his  new  skill ;  some  caught. 
Swiftly  as  smiles  are  caught  in  looks  that  meet, 

The  tone’s  melodic  change  and  rhythmic  beat: 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL. 


29? 


*T  was  easy  following  where  invention  trod  — 

All  eyes  can  see  when  light  flows  out  from  God. 

And  thus  did  Jubal  to  his  race  reveal 
Music  their  larger  soul,  where  woe  and  weal 
Filling  the  resonant  chords,  the  song,  the  dance, 

Moved  with  a  wider-winged  utterance. 

Now  many  a  lyre  was  fashioned,  many  a  song 
Raised  echoes  new,  old  echoes  to  prolong, 

Till  things  of  Jubal5  s  making  were  so  rife, 

“  Hearing  myself,5’  he  said,  “  hems  in  my  life, 

And  I  will  get  me  to  some  far-off  land, 

Where  higher  mountains  under  heaven  stand 
And  touch  the  blue  at  rising  of  the  stars, 

Whose  song  they  hear  where  no  rough  mingling  mars 
The  great  clear  voices.  Such  lands  there  must  be, 
Where  varying  forms  make  varying  symphony  — 

Where  other  thunders  roll  amid  the  hills, 

Some  mightier  wind  a  mightier  forest  fills 
With  other  strains  through  other-shapen  boughs  ; 

Where  bees  and  birds  and  beasts  that  hunt  or  browse 
Will  teach  me  songs  I  know  not.  Listening  there, 

My  life  shall  grow  like  trees  both  tall  and  fair 
That  rise  and  spread  and  bloom  toward  fuller  fruit  each 
year.55 

He  took  a  raft,  and  travelled  with  the  stream 
Southward  for  many  a  league,  till  he  might  deem 
He  saw  at  last  the  pillars  of  the  sky, 

Beholding  mountains  whose  white  majesty 
Rushed  through  him  as  new  awe,  and  made  new  song 
That  swept  with  fuller  wave  the  chords  along, 
Weighting  his  voice  with  deep  religious  chime, 

The  iteration  of  slow  chant  sublime. 

It  was  the  region  lor  ?  inhabited 


298 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


By  all  the  race  of  Seth  ;  and  Jubal  said : 

“  Here  have  I  found  my  thirsty  soul’s  desire, 

Eastward  the  hills  touch  heaven,  and  evening’s  fire 
Flames  through  deep  waters ;  I  will  take  my  rest, 

And  feed  anew  from  my  great  mother’s  breast, 

The  sky-clasped  Earth,  whose  voices  nurture  me 
As  the  flowers’  sweetness  doth  the  honey-bee.” 

He  lingered  wandering  for  many  an  age, 

And,  sowing  music,  made  high  heritage 
For  generations  far  beyond  the  Flood  — 

For  the  poor  late-begotten  human  brood 
Born  to  life’s  weary  brevity  and  perilous  good. 

And  ever  as  he  travelled  he  would  climb 
The  farthest  mountain,  yet  the  heavenly  chime, 

The  mighty  tolling  of  the  far-off  spheres 
Beating  their  pathway,  never  touched  his  ears. 

But  wheresoe’er  he  rose  the  heavens  rose, 

And  the  far-gazing  mountain  could  disclose 
Naught  but  a  wider  earth ;  until  one  height 
Showed  him  the  ocean  stretched  in  liquid  light, 

And  he  could  hear  its  multitudinous  roar, 

Its  plunge  and  hiss  upon  the  pebbled  shore  : 

Then  Jubal  silent  sat,  and  touched  his  lyre  no  more. 

He  thought,  “  The  world  is  great,  but  I  am  weak, 

And  where  the  sky  bends  is  no  solid  peak 
To  give  me  footing,  but  instead,  this  main — ■ 

Myriads  of  maddened  horses  thundering  o’er  the  plain, 

“  New  voices  come  to  me  where’er  I  roam, 

My  heart  too  widens  with  its  widening  home : 

But  song  grows  weaker,  and  the  heart  must  break 
For  lack  of  voice,  or  fingers  that  can  wake 
The  lyre’s  full  answer  ;  nay,  its  chords  were  all 
Too  few  to  meet  the  growing  spirit’s  call. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL. 


299 


The  former  songs  seem  little,  yet  no  more 
Can  soul,  hand,  voice,  with  interchanging  lore 
Tell  what  the  earth  is  saying  unto  me : 

The  secret  is  too  great,  I  hear  confusedly. 

u  No  farther  will  I  travel :  once  again 

My  brethren  I  will  see,  and  that  fair  plain 

Where  I  and  Song  were  born.  There  fresh-voiced  youth 

Will  pour  my  strains  with  all  the  early  truth 

Which  now  abides  not  in  my  voice  and  hands, 

But  only  in  the  soul,  the  will  that  stands 

Helpless  to  move.  My  tril  '  remembering 

Will  cry  f,Tis  he  !’  and  run  to  greet  me,  welcoming.” 

The  way  was  weary.  Many  a  date-palm  grew, 

And  shook  out  clustered  gold  against  the  blue, 

While  Jubal,  guided  by  the  steadfast  spheres, 

Sought  the  dear  home  of  those  first  eager  years, 

When,  with  fresh  vision  fed,  the  fuller  will 
Took  living  outward  shape  in  pliant  skill ; 

For  still  he  hoped  to  find  the  former  things, 

And  the  warm  gladness  recognition  brings. 

His  footsteps  erred  among  the  mazy  woods 
And  long  illusive  sameness  of  the  floods, 

Winding  and  wandering.  Through  far  regions,  strange 
With  Gentile  homes  and  faces,  did  he  range, 

And  left  his  music  in  their  memory, 

And  left  at  last,  when  naught  besides  would  free 
His  homeward  steps  from  clinging  hands  and  cries, 

The  ancient  lyre.  And  now  in  ignorant  eyes 
No  sign  remained  of  Jubal,  Lamech’s  son, 

That  mortal  frame  wherein  was  first  begun 
The  immortal  life  of  song.  His  withered  brow 
Pressed  over  eyes  that  held  no  lightning  now, 

His  locks  streamed  whiteness  on  the  hurrying  air, 


$00 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  unresting  soul  had  worn  itself  quite  hare 
Of  beauteous  token,  as  the  outworn  might 
Of  oaks  slow  dying,  gaunt  in  summer’s  light. 

His  full  deep  voice  toward  thinnest  treble  ran : 

He  was  the  rune-writ  story  of  a  man. 

And  so  at  last  he  neared  the  well-known  land, 

Could  see  the  hills  in  ancient  order  stand 
With  friendly  faces  whose  familiar  gaze 
Looked  through  the  sunshine  of  his  childish  days ; 
Knew  the  deep-shadowed  folds  of  hanging  woods, 
And  seemed  to  see  the  selfsame  insect  broods 
Whirling  and  quivering  o’er  the  flowers  —  to  hear 
The  selfsame  cuckoo  making  distance  near. 

Yea,  the  dear  Earth,  with  mother’s  constancy, 

Met  and  embraced  him,  and  said,  “Thou  art  he ! 
This  was  thy  cradle,  here  my  breast  was  thine, 
Where  feeding,  thou  didst  all  thy  life  entwine 
With  my  sky-wedded  life  in  heritage  divine.” 

But  wending  ever  through  the  watered  plain, 

Firm  not  to  rest  save  in  the  home  of  Cain, 

He  saw  dread  Change,  with  dubious  face  and  cold 
That  never  kept  a  welcome  for  the  old, 

Like  some  strange  heir  upon  the  hearth,  arise 
Saying,  “  This  home  is  mine.”  He  thought  his  eyes 
Mocked  all  deep  memories,  as  things  new  made, 
Usurping  sense,  make  old  things  shrink  and  fade 
And  seem  ashamed  to  meet  the  staring  day. 

His  memory  saw  a  small  foot-trodden  way, 

His  eyes  a  broad  far-stretching  paven  road 
Bordered  with  many  a  tomb  and  fair  abode ; 

The  little  city  that  once  nestled  low 
As  buzzing  groups  about  some  central  glow, 

Spread  like  a  murmuring  crowd  o’er  plain  and  steep, 
Or  monster  huge  in  heavy-breathing  sleep. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL. 


301 


His  heart  grew  faint,  and  tremblingly  he  sank 
Close  by  the  wayside  on  a  weed-grown  bank, 

Not  far  from  where  a  new-raised  temple  stood, 
Sky-roofed,  and  fragrant  with  wrought  cedar  wood. 

The  morning  sun  was  high ;  his  rays  fell  hot 
On  this  hap-chosen,  dusty,  common  spot, 

On  the  dry-withered  grass  and  withered  man : 

That  wondrous  frame  where  melody  began 
Lay  as  a  tomb  defaced  that  no  eye  cared  to  scan. 

But  while  he  sank  far  music  reached  his  ear. 

He  listened  until  wonder  silenced  fear 

And  gladness  wonder ;  for  the  broadening  stream 

Of  sound  advancing  was  his  early  dream, 

Brought  like  fulfilment  of  forgotten  prayer  *, 

As  if  his  soul,  breathed  out  upon  the  air, 

Had  held  the  invisible  seeds  of  harmony 
Quick  with  the  various  strains  of  life  to  be. 

He  listened :  the  sweet  mingled  difference 
With  charm  alternate  took  the  meeting  sense ; 

Then  bursting  like  some  shield-broad  lily  red, 

Sudden  and  near  the  trumpet’s  notes  outspread, 

And  soon  his  eyes  could  see  the  metal  flower, 

Shining  upturned,  out  on  the  morning  pour 
Its  incense  audible ;  could  see  a  train 
From  out  the  street  slow-winding  on  the  plain 
With  lyres  and  cymbals,  flutes  and  psalteries, 

While  men,  youths,  maids,  in  concert  sang  to  these 
With  various  throat,  or  in  succession  poured, 

Or  in  full  volume  mingled.  But  one  word 
Ruled  each  recurrent  rise  and  answering  fall, 

As  when  the  multitudes  adoring  call 

On  some  great  name  divine,  their  common  soul, 

The  common  need,  love,  joy,  that  knits  them  in  one 
whole. 


302 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  word  was  “  Jubal !  ”  .  .  .  “  Jubal  ”  filled  the  air 
And  seemed  to  ride  aloft,  a  spirit  there, 

Creator  of  the  quire,  the  full-fraught  strain 
That  grateful  rolled  itself  to  him  again. 

The  aged  man  adust  upon  the  bank  — 

Whom  no  eye  saw  —  at  first  with  rapture  drank 
The  bliss  of  music,  then,  with  swelling  heart, 

Felt,  this  was  his  own  being’s  greater  part, 

The  universal  joy  once  born  in  him. 

But  when  the  train,  with  living  face  and  limb 
And  vocal  breath,  came  nearer  and  more  near, 

The  longing  grew  that  they  should  hold  him  dear ; 

Him,  Lamech’s  son,  whom  all  their  fathers  knew, 

The  breathing  J ubal  —  him,  to  whom  their  love  was  due 
All  was  forgotten  but  the  burning  need 
To  claim  his  fuller  self,  to  claim  the  deed 
That  lived  away  from  him,  and  grew  apart, 

While  he  as  from  a  tomb,  with  lonely  heart, 

Warmed  by  no  meeting  glance,  no  hand  that  pressed, 
Lay  chill  amid  the  life  his  life  had  blessed. 

What  though  his  song  should  spread  from  man’s  smali 
race 

Out  through  the  myriad  worlds  that  people  space, 

And  make  the  heavens  one  joy -diffusing  quire  ?  — — 

Still  ’mid  that  vast  would  throb  the  keen  desire 
Of  this  poor  aged  flesh,  this  eventide, 

This  twilight  soon  in  darkness  to  subside, 

This  little  pulse  of  self  that,  having  glowed 
Through  thrice  three  centuries,  and  divinely  strowed 
The  light  of  music  through  the  vague  of  sound, 

Ached  with  its  smallness  still  in  good  that  had  no 
bound. 

For  no  eye  saw  him,  while  with  loving  pride 
Each  voic^  with  each  in  praise  of  Jubal  vied. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBALo 


303 


Must  he  in  conscious  trance,  dumb,  helpless  lie 
W  hile  all  that  ardent  kindred  passed  him  by  ? 

His  flesh  cried  out  to  live  with  living  men 
And  join  that  soul  which  to  the  inward  ken 
Of  all  the  hymning  train  was  present  there. 

Strong  passion’s  daring  sees  not  aught  to  dare : 

The  frost-locked  starkness  of  his  frame  low-bent, 

His  voice’s  penury  of  tones  long  spent, 

He  felt  not ;  all  his  being  leaped  in  flame 
To  meet  his  kindred  as  they  onward  came 
Slackening  and  wheeling  toward  the  temple’s  face  ? 
He  rushed  before  them  to  the  glittering  space,  . 

And,  with  a  strength  that  was  but  strong  desire, 
Cried,  “  I  am  Jubal,  I !  ...  I  made  the  lyre !  ” 

The  tones  amid  a  lake  of  silence  fell 
Broken  and  strained,  as  if  a  feeble  bell 
Had  tuneless  pealed  the  triumph  of  a  land 
To  listening  crowds  in  expectation  spanned. 

Sudden  came  showers  of  laughter  on  that  lake ; 

They  spread  along  the  train  from  front  to  wake 
In  one  great  storm  of  merriment,  while  he 
Shrank  doubting  whether  he  could  Jubal  be, 

And  not  a  dream  of  Jubal,  whose  rich  vein 
Of  passionate  music  came  with  that  dream-pain 
Wherein  the  sense  slips  off  from  each  loved  thing 
And  all  appearance  is  mere  vanishing. 

But  ere  the  laughter  died  from  out  the  rear, 

Anger  in  front  saw  profanation  near ; 

Jubal  was  but  a  name  in  each  man’s  faith 
For  glorious  power  untouched  by  that  slow  death 
Which  creeps  with  creeping  time ;  this  too,  the  spot* 
And  this  the  day,  it  must  be  crime  to  blot, 

Even  with  scoffing  at  a  madman’s  lie  : 

Jubal  was  not  a  name  to  wed  with  mockery. 


304 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Two  rushed  upon  him :  two,  the  most  devout 
In  honor  of  great  Jubal,  thrust  him  out, 

And  beat  him  with  their  flutes.  ’T  was  little  need  ; 
He  strove  not,  cried  not,  but  with  tottering  speed, 
As  if  the  scorn  and  howls  were  driving  wind 
That  urged  his  body,  serving  so  the  mind 
Which  could  but  shrink  and  yearn,  he  sought  the 
Of  thorny  thickets,  and  there  fell  unseen. 

The  immortal  name  of  Jubal  filled  the  sky, 

While  Jubal  lonely  laid  him  down  to  die. 

He  said  within  his  soul,  “  This  is  the  end  : 

O’er  all  the  earth  to  where  the  heavens  bend 
And  hem  men’s  travel,  I  have  breathed  my  soul : 

I  lie  here  now  the  remnant  of  that  whole, 

The  embers  of  a  life,  a  lonely  pain ; 

As  far-off  rivers  to  my  thirst  were  vain, 

So  of  my  mighty  years  naught  comes  to  me  again. 

“  Is  the  day  sinking  ?  Softest  coolness  springs 
From  something  round  me  :  dewy  shadowy  wings 
Enclose  me  all  aronnd  —  no,  not  above  — 

Is  moonlight  there  ?  I  see  a  face  of  love, 

Fair  as  sweet  music  when  my  heart  was  strong : 
Yea — art  thou  come  again  to  me,  great  Song  ?” 

The  face  bent  over  him  like  silver  night 
In  long-remembered  summers  ;  that  calm  light 
Of  days  which  shine  in  firmaments  of  thought, 

That  past  unchangeable,  from  change  still  wrought. 
And  gentlest  tones  were  with  the  vision  blent : 

He  knew  not  if  that  gaze  the  music  sent, 

Or  music  that  calm  gaze  :  to  hear,  to  see, 

Was  but  one  undivided  ecstasy: 

The  raptured  senses  melted  into  one, 

And  parting  life  a  moment’s  freedom  won 


“  He  sought  the  screen 
Of  thorny  thickets,  and  there  fell  unseen.” 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL. 


m 


From  in  and  outer,  as  a  little  child 
Sits  on  a  bank  and  sees  blue  heavens  mild 
Down  in  the  water,  and  forgets  its  limbs, 

And  knoweth  naught  save  the  blue  heaven  that  swims, 

“Jubal,”  the  face  said,  "I  am  thy  loved  Past, 

The  soul  that  makes  thee  one  from  first  to  last. 

I  am  the  angel  of  thy  life  and  death, 

Thy  outbreathed  being  drawing  it§  last  breath. 

Am  I  not  thine  alone,  a  dear  dead  bride 
Who  blest  thy  lot  above  all  men’s  beside  ? 

Thy  bride  whom  thou  wouldst  never  change,  nor  take 
Any  bride  living,  for  that  dead  one’s  sake  ? 

Was  I  not  all  thy  yearning  and  delight, 

Thy  chosen  search,  thy  senses’  beauteous  Eight, 
Which  still  had  been  the  hunger  of  thy  frame 
In  central  heaven,  hadst  thou  been  still  the  same  ? 
Wouldst  thou  have  asked  aught  else  from  any  god  — 
Whether  with  gleaming  feet  on  earth  he  trod 
Or  thundered  through  the  skies  —  aught  else  for  share 
Of  mortal  good,  than  in  thy  soul  to  bear 
The  growth  of  song,  and  feel  the  sweet  unrest 
Of  the  world’s  spring-tide  in  thy  conscious  breast  ? 

No,  thou  hadst  grasped  thy  lot  with  all  »ts  pain, 

Nor  loosed  it  any  painless  lot  to  gain 
Where  music’s  voice  was  silent ;  for  thy  fate 
Was  human  music’s  self  incorporate  : 

Thy  senses’  keenness  and  thy  passionate  strife 
Were  flesh  of  her  flesh  and  her  womb  of  life. 

And  greatly  hast  thou  lived,  for  not  alone 
With  hidden  raptures  were  her  secrets  shown. 

Buried  within  thee,  as  the  purple  light 
Of  gems  may  sleep  in  solitary  night ; 

But  thy  expanding  joy  was  still  tc  give, 

And  with  the  generous  air  in  song  to  live, 

20 


306 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Feeding  the  wave  of  ever-widening  bliss 
Where  fellowship  means  equal  perfectness. 

And  on  the  mountains  in  thy  wandering 
Thy  feet  were  beautiful  as  blossomed  spring, 

That  turns  the  leafless  wood  to  love’s  glad  home, 
For  with  thy  coming  Melody  was  come. 

This  was  thy  lot,  to  feel,  create,  bestow, 

And  that  immeasurable  life  to  know 

From  which  the'  fleshly  self  falls  shrivelled,  dead, 

A  seed  primeval  that  has  forests  bred. 

It  is  the  glory  of  the  heritage 
Thy  life  has  left,  that  makes  thy  outcast  age : 
Thy  limbs  shall  lie  dark,  tombless  on  this  sod, 
Because  thou  shinest  in  man’s  soul,  a  god, 

Who  found  and  gave  new  passion  and  new  joy 
That  naught  but  Earth’s  destruction  can  destroy. 
Thy  gifts  to  give  was  thine  of  men  alone : 

’T  was  but  in  giving  that  thou  couldst  atone 
For  too  much  wealth  amid  their  poverty.” 

The  words  seemed  melting  into  symphony, 

The  wings  upbore  him,  and  the  gazing  song 
Was  floating  him  the  heavenly  space  along, 
Where  mighty  harmonies  all  gently  fell 
Through  veiling  vastness,  like  the  far-off  bell, 
Till,  ever  onward  through  the  choral  blue, 

He  heard  more  faintly  and  more  faintly  knew, 
Quitting  mortality,  a  quenched  sun-wave, 

The  All-creating  Presence  for  his  grave. 


1969. 


AGATHA. 


COME  with  me  to  the  mountain,  not  where  rocks 
Soar  harsh  above  the  troops  of  hurrying  pines, 
But  where  the  earth  spreads  soft  and  rounded  breasts 
To  feed  her  children  ;  where  the  generous  hills 
Lift  a  green  isle  betwixt  the  sky  and  plain 
To  keep  some  Old  World  things  aloof  from  change. 
Here  too  ’t  is  hill  and  hollow :  new-born  streams 
With  sweet  enforcement,  joyously  compelled 
Like  laughing  children,  hurry  down  the  steeps, 

And  make  a  dimpled  chase  athwart  the  stones ; 

Pine  woods  are  black  upon  the  heights,  the  slopes 
Are  green  with  pasture,  and  the  bearded  corn 
Fringes  the  blue  above  the  sudden  ridge : 

A  little  world  whose  round  horizon  cuts 
This  isle  of  hills  with  heaven  for  a  sea, 

Save  in  clear  moments  when  southwestward  gleams 
France  by  the  Rhine,  melting  anon  to  haze. 

The  monks  of  old  chose  here  their  still  retreat, 

And  called  it  by  the  Blessed  Virgin’s  name, 

Sancta  Maria,  which  the  peasant’s  tongue, 

Speaking  from  out  the  parent’s  heart  that  turns 
All  loved  things  into  little  things,  has  made 
Sanct  Margen  —  Holy  little  Mary,  dear 
As  all  the  sweet  home  things  she  smiles  upon, 

The  children  and  the  cows,  the  apple-trees, 

The  cart,  the  plough,  all  named  with  that  caress 
Which  feigns  them  little,  easy  to  be  held, 

Familiar  to  the  eyes  and  hand  and  heart. 

What  though  a  Queen  ?  She  puts  her  crown  awa^ 


308 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


And  with  her  little  Boy  wears  common  clothes, 
Caring  for  common  wants,  remembering 
That  day  when  good  Saint  J oseph  left  his  work 
To  marry  her  with  humble  trust  sublime. 

The  monks  are  gone,  their  shadows  fall  no  more 
Tall-f rocked  and  cowled  athwart  the  evening  fields 
At  milking-time  ;  their  silent  corridors 
Are  turned  to  homes  of  bare-armed,  aproned  men, 
Who  toil  for  wife  and  children.  But  the  bells, 
Pealing  on  high  from  two  quaint  convent  towers, 
Still  ring  the  Catholic  signals,  summoning 
To  grave  remembrance  of  the  larger  life 
That  bears  our  own,  like  perishable  fruit 
Upon  its  heaven-wide  branches.  At  their  sound 
The  shepherd  boy  far  off  upon  the  hill, 

The  workers  with  the  saw  and  at  the  forge, 

The  triple  generation  round  the  hearth  — 
Grandames  and  mothers  and  the  flute-voiced  girls—” 
Fall  on  their  knees  and  send  forth  prayerful  cries 
To  the  kind  Mother  with  the  little  Boy, 

Who  pleads  for  helpless  men  against  the  storm, 
Lightning  and  plagues  and  all  terrific  shapes 
Of  power  supreme. 

Within  the  prettiest  hollow  of  these  hills, 

Just  as  you  enter  it,  upon  the  slope 
Stands  a  low  cottage  neighbored  cheerily 
By  running  water,  which,  at  farthest  end 
Of  the  same  hollow,  turns  a  heavy  mill, 

And  feeds  the  pasture  for  the  miller’s  cows, 

Blanchi  and  Nageli,  Veilchen  and  the  rest, 

Matrons  with  faces  as  Griselda  mild, 

Coming  at  call.  And  on  the  farthest  height* 

A  little  tower  looks  out  above  the  pines 
Where  mounting  you  will  find  a  sanctuarj 
Open  and  still ;  without,  the  silent  crowd 


AGATHA. 


309 


Of  heaven-planted,  incense-mingling  flowers  ; 

Within,  the  altar  where  the  Mother  sits 
’Mid  votive  tablets  hung  from  far-off  years 
By  peasants  succored  in  the  peril  of  fire, 

Fever,  or  flood,  who  thought  that  Mary’s  love, 

Willing  but  not  omnipotent,  had  stood 

Between  their  lives  and  that  dread  power  which  slew 

Their  neighbor  at  their  side.  The  chapel  bell 

Will  melt  to  gentlest  music  ere  it  reach 

That  cottage  on  the  slope,  whose  garden  gate 

Has  caught  the  rose-»tree  boughs  and  stands  ajar ; 

So  does  the  door,  to  let  the  sunbeams  in  ; 

For  in  the  slanting  sunbeams  angels  come 
And  visit  Agatha  who  dwells  within  — 

Old  Agatha,  whose  cousins  Kate  ar  d  Kell 
Are  housed  by  her  in  Love  and  Duty’s  name,  * 

They  being  feeble,  with  small  withered  wits, 

And  she  believing  that  the  higher  gift 
Was  given  to  be  shared.  So  Agatha 
Shares  her  one  room,  all  neat  on  afternoons, 

As  if  some  memory  were  sacred  there 
And  everything  within  the  four*  low  walls 
An  honored  relic. 


One  long  summer’s  day 
An  angel  entered  at  the  rose-hung  gate, 

With  skirts  pale  blue,  a  brow  to  quench  the  pearl, 
Hair  soft  and  blonde  as  infants’,  plenteous 
As  hers  who  made  the  wavy  lengths  once  speak 
The  grateful  worship  of  a  rescued  soul. 

The  angel  paused  before  the  open  door 
To  give  good  day.  “  Come  in,”  said  Agatha. 

I  followed  close,  and  watched  and  listened  there. 
The  angel  was  a  lady,  noble,  young, 

Taught  in  all  seemliness  that  fits  a  court, 


810 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


All  lore  that  shapes  the  mind  to  delicate  use, 

Yet  quiet,  lowly,  as  a  meek  white  dove 
That  with  its  presence  teaches  gentleness. 

Men  called  her  Countess  Linda ;  little  girls 
In  Freiburg  town,  orphans  whom  she  caressed, 

Said  Mamma  Linda :  yet  her  years  were  few, 

Her  outward  beauties  all  in  budding  time, 

Her  virtues  the  aroma  of  the  plant 

That  dwells  in  all  its  being,  root,  stem,  leaf, 

And  waits  not  ripeness. 

• 

“  Sit,”  said  Agatha. 

Her  cousins  were  at  work  in  neighboring  homes 
But  yet  she  was  not  lonely ;  all  things  round 
Seemed  filled  with  noiseless  yet  responsive  life, 

As  of  a  child  at  breast  that  gently  clings : 

Hot  sunlight  only  or  the  breathing  flowers 
Or  the  swift  shadows  of  the  birds  and  bees, 

But  all  the  household  goods,  which,  polished  fair 
By  hands  that  cherished  them  for  service  done, 
Shone  as  with  glad  content.  The  wooden  beams 
Dark  and  yet  friendly,  easy  to  be  reached, 

Bore  three  white  crosses  for  a  speaking  sign ; 

The  walls  had  little  pictures  hung  a-row, 

Telling  the  stories  of  Saint  Ursula, 

And  Saint  Elizabeth,  the  lowly  queen ; 

And  on  the  bench  that  served  for  table  too, 

Skirting  the  wall  to  save  the  narrow  space, 

There  lay  the  Catholic  books,  inherited 

From  those  old  times  when  printing  still  was  young 

With  stout-limbed  promise,  like  a  sturdy  boy. 

And  in  the  farthest  corner  stood  the  bed 
Where  o’er  the  pillow  hung  two  pictures  wreathed 
With  fresh-plucked  ivy :  one  the  Virgin’s  death, 
And  one  her  flowering  tomb,  while  high  above 


AGATHA. 


811 


She  smiling  bends  and  lets  her  girdle  down 
For  ladder  to  the  soul  that  cannot  trust 
In  life  which  outlasts  burial.  Agatha 
Sat  at  her  knitting,  aged,  upright,  slim, 

And  spoke  her  welcome  with  mild  dignity. 

She  kept  the  company  of  kings  and  queens 
And  mitred  saints  who  sat  below  the  feet 
Of  Francis  with  the  ragged  frock  and  wounds  5 
And  Rank  for  her  meant  Duty,  various, 

Yet  equal  in  its  worth,  done  -worthily. 

Command  was  service ;  humblest  service  done 
By  willing  and  discerning  soul  was  glory. 

Fair  Countess  Linda  sat  upon  the  bench, 

Close  fronting  the  old  knitter,  and  they  talked 
With  sweet  antiphony  of  young  and  old. 

Agatha. 

You  like  our  valley,  lady  ?  Iam  glad 

You  thought  it  well  to  come  again.  But  rest  — 

The  walk  is  long  from  Master  Michael’s  inn. 

Countess  Linda. 

Yes,  but  no  walk  is  prettier. 

Agatha. 

It  is  true : 

There  lacks  no  blessing  here,  the  waters  all 
Have  virtues  like  the  garments  of  the  Lord, 

And  heal  much  sickness ;  then,  the  crops  and  cows 
Flourish  past  speaking,  and  the  garden  flowers, 
Pink,  blue,  and  purple,  ’t  is  a  joy  to  see 
How  they  yield  honey  for  the  singing  bees. 

I  would  the  whole  world  were  as  good  a  home. 

Countess  Linda. 

And  you  are  well  off,  Agatha  ?  —  your  friends 
Left  you  a  certain  bread :  is  it  not  so  ? 


312 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Agatha. 

Not  so  at  all,  dear  lady.  I  had  naught, 

Was  a  poor  orphan ;  but  I  came  to  tend 
Here  in  this  house,  an  old  afflicted  pair, 

Who  wore  out  slowly ;  and  the  last  who  died, 

Full  thirty  years  ago,  left  me  this  roof 

And  all  the  household  stuff.  It  was  great  wealth. 

And  so  I  had  a  home  for  Kate  and  Nell. 

Countess  Linda. 

But  how,  then,  have  you  earned  your  daily  bread 
These  thirty  years  ? 

Agatha. 

Oh,  that  is  easy  earning. 

We  help  the  neighbors,  and  our  bit  and  sup 
Is  never  failing  :  they  have  work  for  us 
In  house  and  field,  all  sorts  of  odds  and  ends, 

Patching  and  mending,  turning  o’er  the  hay, 

Holding  sick  children  —  there  is  always  work; 

And  they  are  very  good  —  the  neighbors  are  : 

Weigh  not  our  bits  of  work  with  weight  and  scale, 

But  glad  themselves  with  giving  us  good  shares 
Of  meat  and  drink ;  and  in  the  big  farmhouse 
When  cloth  comes  home  from  weaving,  the  good  wife 
Cuts  me  a  piece  —  this  very  gown  —  and  says : 

“  Here,  Agatha,  you  old  maid,  you  have  time 
To  pray  for  Hans  who  is  gone  soldiering : 

The  saints  might  help  him,  and  they  have  much  to  do, 
’T  were  well  they  were  besought  to  think  of  him.” 

She  spoke  half  jesting,  but  I  pray,  I  pray 
For  poor  young  Hans.  I  take  it  much  to  heart 
That  other  people  are  worse  off  than  I  — 

I  ease  my  soul  with  praying  for  them  alL 


AGATHA. 


315 


Countess  Linda. 

That  is  your  way  of  singing,  Agatha ; 

Just  as  the  nightingales  pour  forth  sad  songs, 

And  when  they  reach  men’s  ears  they  make  men’s  hearts 
Feel  the  more  kindly. 

Agatha. 

Nay,  I  cannot  sing : 

My  voice  is  hoarse,  and  oft  I  think  my  prayers 
Are  foolish,  feeble  things ;  for  Christ  is  good 
Whether  I  pray  or  not  —  the  Virgin’s  heart 
Is  kinder  far  than  mine ;  and  then  I  stop 
And  feel  I  can  do  naught  toward  helping  men, 

Till  out  it  comes,  like  tears  that  will  not  hold. 

And  I  must  pray  again  for  all  the  world. 

’T  is  good  to  me  —  I  mean  the  neighbors  are : 

To  Kate  and  Nell  too.  I  have  money  saved 
To  go  on  pilgrimage  the  second  time. 

Countess  Linda. 

And  do  you  mean  to  go  on  pilgrimage 
With  all  your  years  to  carry,  Agatha  ? 

Agatha. 

The  years  are  light,  dear  lady :  ’t  is  my  sins 
Are  heavier  than  I  would.  And  I  shall  go 
All  the  way  to  Einsiedeln  with  that  load : 

1  need  to  work  it  off. 

Countess  Linda. 

What  sort  of  sins, 

Dear  Agatha  ?  I  think  they  must  be  small. 

Agatha. 

Nay,  but  they  may  be  greater  than  I  know; 

’T  is  but  dim  light  I  see  by.  So  I  try 


314 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


All  ways  I  know  of  to  be  cleansed  and  pure. 

I  would  not  sink  where  evil  spirits  are. 

There ’s  perfect  goodness  somewhere :  so  I  strive. 

Countess  Linda. 

You  were  the  better  for  that  pilgrimage 
You  made  before  ?  The  shrine  is  beautiful ; 

And  then  you  saw  fresh  country  all  the  way. 

Agatha. 

Yes,  that  is  true.  And  ever  since  that  time 
The  world  seems  greater,  and  the  Holy  Church 
More  wonderful.  The  blessed  pictures  all, 

The  heavenly  images  with  books  and  wings, 

Are  company  to  me  through  the  day  and  night. 

The  time  !  the  time  !  It  never  seemed  far  back, 

Only  to  father’s  father  and  his  kin 

That  lived  before  him.  But  the  time  stretched  out 

After  that  pilgrimage  :  I  seemed  to  see 

Far  back,  and  yet  I  knew  time  lay  behind, 

As  there  are  countries  lying  still  behind 
The  highest  mountains,  there  in  Switzerland. 

Oh,  it  is  great  to  go  on  pilgrimage ! 

Countess  Linda. 

Perhaps  some  neighbors  will  be  pilgrims  too. 

And  you  can  start  together  in  a  band. 

Agatha. 

Not  from  these  hills :  people  are  busy  here, 

The  beasts  want  tendance.  One  who  is  not  missed 
Can  go  and  pray  for  others  who  must  work. 

I  owe  it  to  all  neighbors,  young  and  old  ; 

For  they  are  good  past  thinking — lads  and  girh 
Given  to  mischief,  merry  naughtiness, 

Quiet  it,  as  the  hedgehogs  smooth  their  spines. 


AGATHA. 


315 


For  fear  of  hurting  poor  old  Agatha. 

’T  is  pretty  :  why,  the  cherubs  in  the  sky 
Look  young  and  merry,  and  the  angels  play 
On  citherns,  lutes,  and  all  sweet  instruments. 

I  would  have  young  things  merry.  See  the  Lord  i 
A  little  baby  playing  with  the  birds ; 

And  how  the  Blessed  Mother  smiles  at  him. 

Countess  Linda. 

I  think  you  are  too  happy,  Agatha, 

To  care  for  heaven.  Earth  contents  you  well. 

Agatha. 

Nay,  nay,  I  shall  be  called,  and  I  shall  go 
Right  willingly.  I  shall  get  helpless,  blind, 

Be  like  an  old  stalk  to  be  plucked  away : 

The  garden  must  be  cleared  for  young  spring  plants 
JT  is  home  beyond  the  grave,  the  most  are  there, 

All  those  we  pray  to,  all  the  Church’s  lights  — 

And  poor  old  souls  are  welcome  in  their  rags : 

One  sees  it  by  the  pictures.  Good  Saint  Ann, 

The  Virgin’s  mother,  she  is  very  old, 

And  had  her  troubles  with  her  husband  too. 

Poor  Kate  and  Nell  are  younger  far  than  I, 

But  they  will  have  this  roof  to  cover  them. 

I  shall  go  willingly  ;  and  willingness 
Makes  the  yoke  easy  and  the  burden  light. 

Countess  Linda. 

When  you  go  southward  in  your  pilgrimage, 

Come  to  see  me  in  Freiburg,  Agatha. 

Where  you  have  friends  you  should  not  go  to  inns. 

Agatha. 

Yes,  I  will  gladly  come  to  see  you,  lady, 

And  you  will  give  me  sweet  hay  for  a  bed. 


« 


S16  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

And  in  the  morning  I  shall  wake  betimes 
And  start  when  all  the  birds  begin  to  sing. 

Countess  Linda. 

You  wear  your  smart  clothes  on  the  pilgrimage. 
Such  pretty  clothes  as  all  the  women  here 
Keep  by  them  for  their  best :  a  velvet  cap 
And  collar  golden-broidered  ?  They  look  well 
On  old  and  young  alike. 

Agatha. 

Nay,  I  have  none  — 

Never  had  better  clothes  than  these  you  see. 

Good  clothes  are  pretty,  but  one  sees  them  best 
When  others  wear  them,  and  I  somehow  thought 
’T  was  not  worth  while.  I  had  so  many  things 
More  than  some  neighbors,  I  was  partly  shy 
Of  wearing  better  clothes  than  they,  and  now 
I  am  so  old  and  custom  is  so  strong 
’T  would  hurt  me  sore  to  put  on  finery. 

Countess  Linda. 

Your  gray  hair  is  a  crown,  dear  Agatha. 

Shake  hands  ;  good-by.  The  sun  is  going  down, 
And  I  must  see  the  glory  from  the  hill. 

I  stayed  among  those  hills ;  and  oft  heard  more 
Of  Agatha.  I  liked  to  hear  her  name, 

As  that  of  one  half  grandame  and  half  saint, 
Uttered  with  reverent  playfulness.  The  lads 
And  younger  men  all  called  her  mother,  aunt, 

Or  granny,  with  their  pet  diminutives, 

And  bade  their  lasses  and  their  brides  behave 
Right  well  to  one  who  surely  made  a  link 
’Twixt  faulty  folk  and  God  by  loving  both: 


AGATHA. 


317 


Not  one  but  counted  service  done  by  her, 

Asking  no  pay  save  just  lier  daily  bread. 

At  feasts  and  weddings,  when  they  passed  in  groups 
Along  the  vaie,  and  the  good  country  wine, 

Being  vocal  in  them,  made  them  quire  along 
In  quaintly  mingled  mirth  and  piety, 

They  fain  must  jest  and  play  some  friendly  trick 
On  three  old  maids  ;  but  when  the  moment  came 
Always  they  bated  breath  and  made  their  sport 
Gentle  as  feather-stroke,  that  Agatha 
Might  like  the  waking  for  the  love  it  showed. 

Their  song  made  happy  music  ’mid  the  hills, 

For  nature  tuned  their  race  to  harmony, 

And  poet  Hans,  the  tailor,  wrote  them  songs 
That  grew  from  out  their  life,  as  crocuses 
From  out  the  meadow’s  moistness.  ’T  was  his  song 
They  oft  sang,  wending  homeward  from  a  feast  — 
The  song  I  give  you.  It  brings  in,  you  see, 

Their  gentle  jesting  with  the  three  old  maids. 


Midnight  by  the  chapel  bell ! 
Homeward,  homeward  all,  farewell ! 
I  with  you,  and  you  with  me, 

Miles  are  short  with  company. 

Heart  of  Mary ,  bless  the  way , 
Keep  us  all  by  night  and  day  ! 

Moon  and  stars  at  feast  with  night 
Now  have  drunk  their  fill  of  light. 
Home  they  hurry,  making  time 
Trot  apace,  like  merry  rhyme. 

Heart  of  Mary ,  mystic  rose , 

Send  us  all  a  sweet  repose  / 


18 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Swiftly  through  the  wood  down  hill, 
Run  till  you  can  hear  the  mill. 

Toni’s  ghost  is  wandering  now, 

Shaped  just  like  a  snow-white  cow. 
Heart  of  Mary ,  morning  star , 

Ward  off  danger,  near  or  far! 

Toni’s  wagon  with  its  load 
Fell  and  crushed  him  in  the  road 
’Twixt  these  pine-trees.  Never  fear! 
Give  a  neighbor’s  ghost  good  cheer. 
Holy  Babe ,  our  God  and  Brother, 
Bind  us  fast  to  one  another! 

Hark !  the  mill  is  at  its  work, 

Now  we  pass  beyond  the  murk 
To  the  hollow,  where  the  moon 
Makes  her  silvery  afternoon. 

Good  Saint  Joseph ,  faithful  spouse 
Help  us  all  to  keep  our  vows  ! 

Here  the  three  old  maidens  dwell, 
Agatha  and  Kate  and  Nell; 

See,  the  moon  shines  on  the  thatch, 
We  will  go  and  shake  the  latch. 

Heart  of  Mary ,  cup  of  joy, 

Give  us  mirth  without  alloy  / 

Hush,  ’t  is  here,  no  noise,  sing  low, 
Rap  with  gentle  knuckles  —  so  ! 

Like  the  little  tapping  birds, 

On  the  door ;  then  sing  good  words. 
Meek  Saint  Anna,  old  and  fair, 
Hallow  all  the  snow-white  hair ! 


) 


4 


AGATHA. 


319 


Little  maidens  old,  sweet  dreams  1 
Sleep  one  sleep  till  morning  beams. 
Mothers  ye,  who  help  us  all, 

Quick  at  hand,  if  ill  befall. 

Holy  Gabriel ,  lily-laden, 

Bless  the  aged  mother-maiden  ! 

Forward,  mount  the  broad  hillside 
Swift  as  soldiers  when  they  ride. 

See  the  two  towers  how  they  peep, 
Round-capped  giants,  o’er  the  steep. 
Heart  of  Mary ,  by  thy  sorrow, 

Keep  us  upright  through  the  morrow i 

Now  they  rise  quite  suddenly 
Like  a  man  from  bended  knee, 

Now  Saint  Margen  is  in  sight, 

Here  the  roads  branch  off  —  good-night 
Heart  of  Mary,  by  thy  grace, 

Give  us  with  the  saints  a  place  / 


ARMGART 


SCENE  I. 

A  Salon  lit  with  larrups  and  ornamented  with  green  plants . 
An  open  piano ,  with  many  scattered  sheets  of  music. 
Bronze  busts  of  Beethoven  and  Gluck  on  pillars  oppo¬ 
site  each  other.  A  small  table  spread  with  supper. 
To  Fraulein  Walpurga,  who  advances  with  a  slight 
lameness  of  gait  from  an  adjoining  room ,  enters  Graf 
Dornberg  at  the  opposite  door  in  a  travelling  dress. 

Graf. 

Good-morning,  Fraulein! 

Walpurga. 

What,  so  soon  returned  ? 

]  feared  your  mission  kept  you  still  at  Prague. 

Graf. 

But  now  arrived  !  You  see  my  travelling  dress. 

1  hurried  from  the  panting,  roaring  steam 

Like  any  courier  of  embassy 

AVlio  hides  the  fiends  of  war  within  his  bag. 


Walpurga. 

Vo  a  know  that  Armgart  sings  to-night  ? 


Graf. 

JT  is  close  on  half-past  nine. 


Has  sung ! 

The  Orpheus 


ARMGART.  321 

Lasts  not  so  long.  Her  spirits  —  were  they  high  ? 
Was  Leo  confident  ? 

Walpurga. 

He  only  feared 

Some  tameness  at  beginning.  Let  the  house 
Once  ring,  he  said,  with  plaudits,  she  is  safe. 

Graf. 

And  .Armgart  ? 

Walpurga. 

She  was  stiller  than  her  wont. 

But  once,  at  some  such  trivial  word  of  mine, 

As  that  the  highest  prize  might  yet  be  won 
By  her  who  took  the  second  —  she  was  roused. 

“  For  me,”  she  said,  u  I  triumph  or  I  fail. 

I  never  strove  for  any  second  j)rize,” 

Graf. 

Poor  human-hearted  singing-bird  !  She  bears 
Caesar’s  ambition  in  her  delicate  breast, 

And  naught  to  still  it  with  but  quivering  song ! 

Walpurga, 

I  had  not  for  the  world  been  there  to-night : 
Unreasonable  dread  oft  chills  me  more 
Than  any  reasonable  hope  can  warm. 

Graf. 

You  nave  a  rare  affection  for  your  cousin ; 

As  tender  as  a  sister’s. 

Walpurga. 

Nay,  I  fear 

My  love  is  little  more  than  what  I  felt 

21 


822 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


For  happy  stories  when  I  was  a  child. 

She  fills  my  life  that  would  be  empty  else, 

And  lifts  my  naught  to  value  by  her  side. 

Graf. 

She  is  reason  good  enough,  or  seems  to  be, 

Why  all  were  born  whose  being  ministers 
To  her  completeness.  Is  it  most  her  voice 
Subdues  us  ?  or  her  instinct  exquisite, 

Informing  each  old  strain  with  some  new  grace 
Which  takes  our  sense  like  any  natural  good  ? 

Or  most  her  spiritual  energy 

That  sweeps  us  in  the  current  of  her  song  ? 

Warpurga. 

I  know  not.  Losing  either,  we  should  lose 
That  whole  we  call  our  Armgart.  For  herself, 

She  often  wonders  what  her  life  had  been 
Without  that  voice  for  channel  to  her  soul. 

She  says,  it  must  have  leaped  through  all  her  limbs 
Made  her  a  Maenad  —  made  her  snatch  a  brand 
And  fire  some  forest,  that  her  rage  might  mount 
In  crashing  roaring  flames  through  half  a  land, 
Leaving  her  still  and  patient  for  a  while. 

“  Poor  wretch  !  ”  she  says,  of  any  murderess  — » 

“  The  world  was  cruel,  and  she  could  not  sing : 

I  carry  my  revenges  in  my  throat ; 

I  love  in  singing,  and  am  loved  again.” 

Graf. 

Mere  mood  !  I  cannot  yet  believe  it  more. 

Too  much  ambition  has  unwomaned  her ; 

But  only  for  a  while.  Her  nature  hides 
One  half  its  treasures  by  its  very  wealth, 

Taxing  the  hours  to  show  it. 


ARMGAKX. 


823 


Walpurga. 

Hark !  she  comes. 

( Enter  Leo  with  a  wreath  in  his  hand ,  holding 
the  door  open  for  Armgart,  who  wears  a 
furred  mantle  and  hood.  She  is  followed  by 
her  maid,  carrying  an  armful  of  bouquets .) 

Leo. 

Place  for  the  queen  of  song ! 

Graf  ( advancing  toward  Armgart,  who  throws  off 
her  hood  and  mantle,  and  shows  a  star  of  brilliants 
in  her  hair). 

A  triumph,  then. 

You  will  not  be  a  niggard  of  your  joy 

And  chide  the  eagerness  that  came  to  share  it. 

Armgart. 

0  kind  !  you  hastened  your  return  for  me. 

I  would  you  had  been  there  to  hear  me  sing! 
Walpurga,  kiss  me  :  never  tremble  more 
Lest  Armgart’s  wing  should  fail  her.  She  has  found 
This  night  the  region  where  her  rapture  breathes  — 
Pouring  her  passion  on  the  air  made  live 
With  human  heart-throbs.  Tell  them,  Leo,  tell  them 
How  I  outsang  your  hope  and  made  you  cry 
Because  Gluck  could  not  hear  me.  That  was  folly  ! 

He  sang,  not  listened  :  every  linked  note 
Was  his  immortal  pulse  that  stirred  in  mine, 

And  all  my  gladness  is  but  part  of  him. 

Give  me  the  wreath. 

(She  crowns  the  bust  of  Gluck.) 

Leo  (sardonically). 

Ay,  ay,  but  mark  you  this  * 

It  was  not  part  of  him  —  that  trill  you  made 
In  spite  of  me  and  reason  ! 


$24 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Armgart. 

You  were  wrong  — 

Dear  Leo,  you  were  wrong :  the  house  was  held 
As  if  a  storm  were  listening  with  delight 
And  hushed  its  thunder. 

Leo. 

Will  you  ask  the  house 
To  teach  you  singing  ?  Quit  your  Orpheus  then, 

And  sing  in  farces  grown  to  operas, 

Where  all  the  prurience  of  the  full-fed  mob 
Is  tickled  with  melodic  impudence : 

Jerk  forth  burlesque  bravuras,  square  your  arms 
Akimbo  with  a  tavern  wench’s  grace, 

And  set  the  splendid  compass  of  your  voice 
To  lyric  jigs.  Go  to  !  I  thought  you  meant 
To  be  an  artist  —  lift  your  audience 
To  see  your  vision,  not  trick  forth  a  show 
To  please  the  grossest  taste  of  grossest  numbers. 

Armgart  ( taking  up  Leo’s  hand  and  kissing  it). 

Pardon,  good  Leo,  I  am  penitent. 

I  will  do  penance  :  sing  a  hundred  trills 
Into  a  deep-dug  grave,  then  burying  them 
As  one  did  Midas’  secret,  rid  myself 
Of  naughty  exultation.  Oh  I  trilled 
At  nature’s  prompting,  like  the  nightingales. 

Go  scold  them,  dearest  Leo. 

Leo. 

I  stop  my  ears. 

Nature  in  Gluck  inspiring  Orpheus, 

Has  done  with  nightingales.  Are  bird-beaks  lips  ? 

Graf. 

Truce  to  rebukes  !  Tell  us  — who  were  not  there  — 
The  double  drama  :  how  the  expectant  house 
Took  the  first  notes. 


ARMGART. 


3Z& 


Walpurga  (turning  from  her  occupation  of  decking  the 

room  with  the  flowers). 

Yes,  tell  us  all,  dear  Armgart. 
Did  you  feel  tremors  ?  Leo,  how  did  she  look  ? 

Was  there  a  cheer  to  greet  her  ? 

Leo. 

Not  a  sound. 

She  walked  like  Orpheus  in  his  solitude, 

And  seemed  to  see  naught  but  what  no  man  saw. 

7T  was  famous.  Not  the  Schroeder-Devrient 
Had  done  it  better.  But  your  blessed  public 
Had  never  any  judgment  in  cold  blood  — 

Thinks  all  perhaps  were  better  otherwise, 

Till  rapture  brings  a  reason. 

Armgart  (scornfully). 

.  I  knew  that ! 

The  women  whispered,  “  Not  a  pretty  face  !  ” 

The  men,  “Well,  well,  a  goodly  length  of  limb; 

She  bears  the  chrfcon.” — It  were  all  the  same 
Were  I  the  Virgin  Mother  and  my  stage 
The  opening  heavens  at  the  Judgment-day  : 

Gossips  would  peep,  jog  elbows,  rate  the  price 
Of  such  a  woman  in  the  social  mart. 

What  were  the  drama  of  the  world  to  them, 

Unless  they  felt  the  liell-prong  ? 

Leo. 

Peace,  now,  peace! 

I  hate  my  phrases  to  be  smothered  o’er 
With  sauce  of  paraphrase,  my  sober  tune 
Made  bass  to  rambling  trebles,  showering  down 
In  endless  demi-semi-quavers. 


326 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Armgart  (taking  a  bon-bon  from  the  table ,  uplifting 
it  before  putting  it  into  her  mouth,  and  turning 

away).  Mum ! 

Graf. 

Yes,  tell  us  all  the  glory,  leave  the  blame. 

Walpurga. 

You  first,  dear  Leo  —  what  you  saw  and  heard ; 
Then  Armgart  —  she  must  tell  us  what  she  felt. 

Leo. 

Well !  The  first  notes  came  clearly,  firmly  forth. 
And  I  was  easy,  for  behind  those  rills 
I  knew  there  was  a  fountain.  I  could  see 
The  house  was  breathing  gently,  heads  were  still ; 
Parrot  opinion  was  struck  meekly  mute, 

And  human  hearts  were  swelling.  Armgart  stood 

As  if  she  had  been  new-created  there 

And  found  her  voice  which  found  a  melody. 

The  minx  !  Gluck  had  not  written,  nor  I  taught : 
Orpheus  was  Armgart,  Armgart  Orpheus. 

Well,  well,  all  through  the  scena  I  could  feel 
The  silence  tremble  now,  now  poise  itself 
With  added  weight  of  feeling,  till  at  last 
Delight  o’er-toppled  it.  The  final  note 
Had  happy  drowning  m  the  unloosed  roar 
That  surged  and  ebbed  and  ever  surged  again, 

Till  expectation  kept  it  pent  awhile 
Ere  Orpheus  returned.  Pfui !  He  was  changed : 
My  demi-god  was  pale,  had  downcast  eyes 
That  quivered  like  a  bride’s  who  fain  would  send 
Backward  the  rising  tear. 


ARMGART. 


827 


Armgart  ( advancing ,  but  then  turning  away ,  as  if  to 

check  her  speech) . 

I  was  a  bride, 

As  nuns  are  at  their  spousals. 

Leo. 

Ay,  my  lady, 

That  moment  will  not  come  again  :  applause 
May  come  and  plenty ;  but  the  first,  first  draught ! 

(Snaps  his  fingers.) 

Music  has  sounds  for  it — I  know  no  words. 

I  felt  it  once  myself  when  they  performed 
•’My  overture  to  Sintram.  Well!  ’tis  strange, 

We  know  not  pain  from  pleasure  in  such  joy. 

Armgart  ( turning  quickly). 

Oh,  pleasure  has  cramped  dwelling  in  our  souls, 
And  when  full  Being  comes  must  call  on  pain 
To  lend  it  liberal  space. 

Walpurga. 

I  hope  the  house 

Kept  a  reserve  of  plaudits  :  I  am  jealous 

Lest  they  had  dulled  themselves  for  coming  good 

That  should  have  seemed  the  better  and  the  best. 

Leo. 

No,  ’t  was  a  revel  where  they  had  but  quaffed 
Their  opening  cup.  I  thank  the  artist’s  star. 

His  audience  keeps  not  sober :  once  afire, 

They  flame  toward  climax  though  his  merit  hold 
But  fairly  even. 

Armgart  (her  hand  on  Leo’s  ami). 

Now,  now,  confess  the  truth : 

I  sang  still  better  to  the  very  end  — 


828 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


All  save  the  trill ;  I  give  that  up  to  you, 

To  bite  and  growl  at.  Why,  you  said  yourself, 
Each  time  I  sang,  it  seemed  new  doors  were  oped 
That  you  might  hear  heaven  clearer. 

Leo  (shaking  his  finger). 

I  was  raving. 

Armgart. 

I  am  not  glad  with  that  mean  vanity 
Which  knows  no  good  beyond  its  appetite 
Full  feasting  upon  praise  !  I  am  only  glad, 

Being  praised  for  what  I  know  is  worth  the  praise  ; 
Glad  of  the  proof  that  I  myself  have  part 
In  what  I  worship !  At  the  last  applause  — 
Seeming  a  roar  of  tropic  winds  that  tossed 
The  handkerchiefs  and  many-colored  flowers, 
Falling  like  shattered  rainbows  all  around  — 

Think  you  I  felt  myself  a  prima  donna  ? 

No,  but  a  happy  spiritual  star 
Such  as  old  Dante  saw,  wrought  in  a  rose 
Of  light  in  Paradise,  whose  only  self 
Was  consciousness  of  glory  wide-diffused, 

Music,  life,  power  —  I  moving  in  the  midst 
With  a  sublime  necessity  -of  good. 

Leo  (with  a  shrug). 

I  thought  it  was  a  prima  donna  came 
Within  the  side-scenes  ;  ay,  and  she  was  proud 
To  And  the  bouquet  from  the  royal  box 
Enclosed  a  jewel-case,  and  proud  to  wear 
A  star  of  brilliants,  quite  an  earthly  star, 

Valued  by  thalers.  Come,  my  lady,  own 
Ambition  has  five  senses,  and  a  self 
That  gives  it  good  warm  lodging  when  it  sink* 
Plump  down  from  ecstasy. 


ARMGART. 


329 


Armgart. 

Own  it  ?  why  not  ? 

Am  1  a  sage  whose  words  must  fall  like  seed 
Silently  buried  toward  a  far-off  spring  ? 

I  sing  to  living  men  and  my  effect 
Is  like  the  summer’s  sun,  that  ripens  corn 
Or  now  or  never.  If  the  world  brings  me  gifts, 
Gold,  incense,  myrrh  —  ’twill  be  the  needful  sign 
That  I  have  stirred  it  as  the  high  year  stirs 
Before  I  sink  to  winter. 

Graf. 

Ecstasies 

Are  short  —  most  happily  !  We  should  but  lose 
Were  Armgart  borne  too  commonly  and  long 
Out  of  the  self  that  charms  us.  Could  I  choose, 
She  were  less  apt  to  soar  beyond  the  reach 
Of  woman’s  foibles,  innocent  vanities, 

Fondness  for  trifles  like  that  pretty  star 
Twinkling  beside  her  cloud  of  ebon  hair. 

Armgart  ( taking  out  the  gem  and  looking  at  it). 

This  little  star !  I  would  it  were  the  seed 
Of  a  whole  Milky  Way,  if  such  bright  shimmer 
Were  the  sole  speech  men  told  their  rapture  with 
At  Armgart’s  music.  Shall  I  turn  aside 
From  splendors  which  flash  out  the  glow  I  make, 
And  live  to  make,  in  all  the  chosen  breasts  • 

Of  half  a  Continent  ?  No,  may  it  come, 

That  splendor !  May  the  day  be  near  when  men 
Think  much  to  let  my  horses  draw  me  home, 

And  new  lands  welcome  me  upon  their  beach, 
Loving  me  for  my  fame.  That  is  the  truth 
Of  what  I  wish,  nay,  yearn  for.  Shall  I  lie  ? 
Pretend  to  seek  obscurity  —  to  sing 


380 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


In  hope  of  disregard  ?  A  vile  pretence ! 

And  blasphemy  besides.  For  what  is  fame 
But  the  benignant  strength  of  One,  transformed 
To  joy  of  Many  ?  Tributes,  plaudits  come 
As  necessary  breathing  of  such  joy ; 

And  may  they  come  to  me  ! 

Graf. 

The  auguries 

Point  clearly  that  way.  Is  it  no  offence 
To  wish  the  eagle’s  wing  may  find  repose, 

As  feebler  wings  do,  in  a  quiet  nest  ? 

Or  has  the  taste  of  fame  already  turned 
The  Woman  to  a  Muse  .... 

Leo  ( going  to  the  table). 

Who  needs  no  supper. 
I  am  her  priest,  ready  to  eat  her  share 
Of  good  Walpurga’s  offerings. 

Walpurga. 

Armgart,  come. 

Graf,  will  you  come  ? 

Graf. 

Thanks,  I  play  truant  here, 
And  must  retrieve  my  self-indulged  delay. 

But  will  the  Muse  receive  a  votary 
At  any  hour  to-morrow  ? 

Armgart. 

Any  hour 

After  rehearsal,  after  twelve  at  noon. 


ARMGART. 


331 


SCENE  n. 

The  same  Salon,  morning.  Armgart  seated,  in  her  bonnet 
and  walking-dress.  The  Graf  standing  near  her 
against  the  piano. 


Graf. 

Armgart,  to  many  minds  the  first  success 
Is  reason  for  desisting.  I  have  known 
A  man  so  versatile,  he  tried  all  arts, 

But  when  in  each  by  turns  he  had  achieved 
Just  so  much  mastery  as  made  men  say, 
u  could  be  king  here  if  he  would/’  he  threw 
The  lauded  skill  aside.  He  hates,  said  one, 

The  level  of  achieved  pre-eminence, 

He  must  be  conquering  still ;  but  others  said  — 

Armgart. 

The  truth,  I  hope  :  he  Jiad  a  meagre  soul, 

Holding  no  depth  where  love  could  root  itself. 

“  Could  if  he  would  ?  ”  True  greatness  ever  wills  — * 
It  lives  m  wholeness  if  it  live  at  all, 

And  all  its  strength  is  knit  with  constancy. 

Graf. 

He  used  to  say  himself  he  was  too  sane 
To  give  his  life  away  for  excellence 
Which  yet  must  stand,  an  ivory  statuette 
Wrought  to  perfection  through  long  lonely  years, 
Huddled  in  the  mart  of  mediocrities. 

He  said,  the  very  finest  doing  wins 
The  admiring  only  ;  but  to  leave  undone, 

Promise  and  not  fulfil,  like  buried  youth, 

Wins  all  the  envious,  makes  them  sigh  your  namt* 


382 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


As  that  fair  Absent,  blameless  Possible, 

Which  could  alone  impassion  them;  and  thus, 
Serene  negation  has  free  gift  of  all, 

Panting  achievement  struggles,  is  denied, 

Or  wins  to  lose  again.  What  say  you,  Armgart? 
Truth  has  rough  flavors  if  we  bite  it  through ; 

I  think  this  sarcasm  came  from  out  its  core 
Of  bitter  irony. 

Armgart. 

It  is  the  truth 

Mean  souls  select  to  feed  upon.  What  then  ? 

Their  meanness  is  a  truth,  which  I  will  spurn. 

The  praise  I  seek  lives  not  in  envious  breath 
Using  my  name  to  blight  another’s  deed. 

I  sing  for  love  of  song  and  that  renown 
Which  is  the  spreading  act,  the  world-wide  share, 

Of  good  that  I  was  born  with.  Had  I  failed  — 
Well,  that  had  been  a  truth  most  pitiable. 

I  cannot  bear  to  think  what  life  would  be 

With  high  hope  shrunk  to  endurance,  stunted  aims 

Like  broken  lances  ground  to  eating-knives, 

A  self  sunk  down  to  look  with  level  eyes 
At  low  achievement,  doomed  from  day  to  day 
To  distaste  of  its  consciousness.  But  I  — 

Graf. 

Have  won,  not  lost,  in  your  decisive  throw. 

And  I  too  glory  in  this  issue  ;  yet, 

The  public  verdict  has  no  potency 
To  sway  my  judgment  of  what  Armgart  is : 

My  pure  delight  in  her  would  be  but  sullied, 

If  it  o’erflowed  with  mixture  of  men’s  praise. 

And  had  she  failed,  I  should  have  said,  “  The  pearl 
Remains  a  pearl  for  me,  reflects  the  light 


ARMGART. 


333 


With,  the  same  fitness  that  first  charmed  my  gaze  — 
Is  worth  as  fine  a  setting  now  as  then.” 

Armgart  (rising). 

Oh,  yon  are  good !  But  why  will  you  rehearse 
The  talk  of  cynics,  who  with  insect  eyes 
Explore  the  secrets  of  the  rubbish-heap  ? 

I  hate  your  epigrams  and  pointed  saws 
Whose  narrow  truth  is  but  broad  falsity. 

Confess  your  friend  was  shallow. 

Graf. 

I  confess 

Life  is  not  rounded  in  an  epigram, 

And  saying  aught,  we  leave  a  world  unsaid. 

I  quoted,  merely  to  shape  forth  my  thought 
That  high  success  has  terrors  when  achieved  — 

Like  preternatural  spouses  whose  dire  love 
Hangs  perilous  on  slight  observances : 

Whence  it  were  possible  that  Armgart  crowned 
Might  turn  and  listen  to  a  pleading  voice, 

Though  Armgart  striving  in  the  race  was  deaf. 

You  said  you  dared  not  think  what  life  had  been 
Without  the  stamp  of  eminence  ;  have  you  thought 
How  you  will  bear  the  poise  of  eminence 
With  dread  of  sliding  ?  Paint  the  future  out 
As  an  unchecked  and  glorious  career, 

’T  will  grow  more  strenuous  by  the  very  love 
You  bear  to  excellence,  the  very  fate 
Of  human  powers,  which  tread  at  every  step 
On  possible  verges. 


Armgart. 

I  accept  the  peril. 

I  choose  to  walk  high  with  sublimer  dread 


334 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Rather  than  crawl  in  safety.  And,  besides, 

I  am  an  artist  as  yon  are  a  noble : 

I  ought  to  bear  the  burden  of  my  rank. 

Graf. 

Such  parallels,  dear  Armgart,  are  but  snares 
To  catch  the  mind  with  seeming  argument  — 
Small  baits  of  likeness  ’mid  disparity. 

Men  rise  the  higher  as  their  task  is  high, 

The  task  being  well  achieved.  A  woman’s  rank 
Lies  in  the  fulness  of  her  womanhood : 

Therein  alone  she  is  royal. 

Armgart. 

Yes,  I  know 

The  oft-taught  Gospel :  “  Woman,  thy  desire 
Shall  be  that  all  superlatives  on  earth 
Belong  to  men,  save  the  one  highest  kind  — 

To  be  a  mother.  Thou  shalt  not  desire 
To  do  aught  best  save  pure  subservience : 

Nature  has  willed  it  so  !  ”  0  blessed  Nature  ! 

Let  her  be  arbitress  j  she  gave  me  voice 
Such  as  she  only  gives  a  woman  child, 

Best  of  its  kind,  gave  me  ambition  too, 

That  sense  transcendent  which  can  taste  the  joy 
Of  swaying  multitudes;  of  being  adored 
For  such  achievement,  needed  excellence, 

As  man’s  best  art  must  wait  for,  or  be  dumb. 
Men  did  not  say,  when  I  had  sung  last  night, 

“  ’T  was  good,  nay,  wonderful,  considering 
She  is  a  woman  ”  —  and  then  turn  to  add, 

“  Tenor  or  baritone  had  sung  her  songs 
Better,  of  course  :  she ’s  but  a  woman  spoiled.” 

I  beg  your  pardon,  Graf,  you  said  it. 


ARMGART. 


335 


Graf. 

No! 

How  should  I  say  it,  Armgart  ?  I  who  own 
The  magic  of  your  nature-given  art 
As  sweetest  effluence  of  your  womanhood 
Which,  being  to  my  choice  the  best,  must  find 
The  best  of  utterance.  But  this  I  say : 

Your  fervid  youth  beguiles  you ;  you  mistake 
A  strain  of  lyric  passion  for  a  life 
Which  in  the  spending  is  a  chronicle 
With  ugly  pages.  Trust  me,  Armgart,  trust  me ; 
Ambition  exquisite  as  yours  which  soars 
Towards  something  quintessential  you  call  fame, 

Is  not  robust  enough  for  this  gross  world 
Whose  fame  is  dense  with  false  and  foolish  breath, 
Ardor,  a-twin  with  nice  refining  thought, 

Prepares  a  double  pain.  Pain  had  been  saved, 
Nay,  purer  glory  reached,  had  you  been  throned 
As  woman  only,  holding  all  your  art 
As  attribute  to  that  dear  sovereignty  — 
Concentring  your  power  in  home  delights 
Which  penetrate  and  purify  the  world. 

Armgart. 

What !  leave  the  opera  with  my  part  ill-sung 
While  I  was  warbling  in  a  drawing-room  ? 

Sing  in  the  chimney-corner  to  inspire 
My  husband  reading  news  ?  Let  the  world  hear 
My  music  only  in  his  morning  speech 
Less  stammering  than  most  honorable  men’s  ? 

No !  tell  me  that  my  song  is  poor,  my  art 
The  piteous  feat  of  weakness  aping  strength- — 
That  were  fit  proem  to  your  argument. 

Till  then,  I  am  an  artist  by  my  birth  — 

By  the  same  warrant  that  I  am  a  woman : 


836 


POEMS  OF  GEOFGE  ELIOT. 


Nay,  in  the  added  rarer  gift  I  see 
Supreme  vocation :  if  a  conflict  comes, 
perish  —  no,  not  the  woman,  hut  the  joys 
Which  men  make  narrow  by  their  narrowness. 

Oh,  I  am  happy  !  The  great  masters  write 
For  women’s  voices,  and  great  Music  wants  me ! 

I  need  not  crush  myself  within  a  mould 
Of  theory  called  Nature  :  I  have  room 
To  breathe  and  grow  unstunted. 

Graf. 

Armgart,  hear  me, 

L  meant  not  that  our  talk  should  hurry  on 

To  such  collision.  Foresight  of  the  ills 

Thick  shadowing  your  path,  drew  on  my  speech 

Beyond  intention.  True,  I  came  to  ask 

A  great  renunciation,  but  not  this 

Toward  which  my  words  at  first  perversely  strayed, 

As  if  in  memory  of  their  earlier  suit, 

Forgetful . 

Armgart,  do  you  remember  too  ?  the  suit 
Had  but  postponement,  was  not  quite  disdained  — 
Was  told  to  wait  and  learn  —  what  it  has  learned  — 
A  more  submissive  speech. 

Armgart  (with  some  agitation). 

Then  it  forgot 

Its  lesson  cruelly.  As  I  remember, 

,rT  was  not  to  speak  save  to  the  artist  crowned, 

Nor  speak  to  her  of  casting  off  her  crown. 

Graf. 

Nor  will  it,  Armgart.  I  come  not  to  seek 
Any  renunciation  save  the  wife’s, 

Which  turns  away  from  other  possible  love 
Future  and  worthier,  to  take  his  love 


ARMGART. 


337 


Who  asks  the  name  of  husband.  He  who  sought 
Armgart  obscure,  and  heard  her  answer,  “  Wait  ”  — 
May  come  without  suspicion  now  to  seek 
Armgart  applauded. 

Armgart  ( turning  toward  him). 

Yes,  without  suspicion 
Of  aught  save  what  consists  with  faithfulness 
In  all  expressed  intent.  Forgive  me,  Graf  — 

I  am  ungrateful  to  no  soul  that  loves  me  — 

To  you  most  grateful.  Yet  the  best  intent 
Grasps  but  a  living  present  which  may  grow 
Like  any  unfledged  bird.  You  are  a  noble, 

And  have  a  high  career ;  just  now  you  said 
’T  was  higher  far  than  aught  a  woman  seeks 
Beyond  mere  womanhood.  You  claim  to  be 
More  than  a  husband,  but  could  not  rejoice 
That  I  were  more  than  wife.  What  follows,  then  ? 
You  choosing  me  with  such  persistency 
As  is  but  stretched-out  rashness,  soon  must  find 
Our  marriage  asks  concessions,  asks  resolve 
To  share  renunciation  or  demand  it. 

Either  we  both  renounce  a  mutual  ease, 

As  in  a  nation’s  need  both  man  and  wife 

Do  public  services,  or  one  of  us 

Must  yield  that  something  else  for  which  each  lives 

Besides  the  other.  Men  are  reasoners  : 

That  premise  of  superior  claims  perforce 
Urges  conclusion —  “  Armgart,  it  is  you.” 

Graf. 

But  if  I  say  I  have  considered  this 
With  strict  prevision,  counted  all  the  cost 
Which  that  great  good  of  loving  you  demands  — 
Questioned  by  stores  of  patience,  half  resolved 

22 


838 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


To  live  resigned  without  a  bliss  whose  threat 
Touched  you  as  well  as  me  —  and  finally, 

With  impetus  of  undivided  will 
Returned  to  say,  “  You  shall  be  free  as  now ; 

Only  accept  the  refuge,  shelter,  guard, 

My  love  will  give  your  freedom  ”  — then  your  words 
Are  hard  accusal. 

Armgart. 

Well,  I  accuse  myself. 

My  love  would  be  accomplice  of  your  will. 

Graf. 

Again  —  my  will  ? 

Armgart. 

Oh,  your  unspoken  will. 

Your  silent  tolerance  would  torture  me, 

And  on  that  rack  I  should  deny  the  good 
I  yet  believed  in. 

Graf. 

Then  I  am  the  man 
Whom  you  would  love  ? 

Armgart. 

Whom  I  refuse  to  love  l 
No ;  I  will  live  alone  and  pour  my  pain 
With  passion  into  music,  where  it  turns 
To  what  is  best  within  my  better  self. 

I  will  not  take  for  husband  one  who  deems 
The  thing  my  soul  acknowledges  as  good  — 

The  thing  I  hold  worth  striving,  suffering  for, 

To  be  a  thing  dispensed  with  easily 
Or  else  the  idol  of  a  mind  infirm. 


ARMGART. 


889 


Graf. 

Armgart,  you  are  ungenerous  ;  you  strain 
My  thought  beyond  its  mark.  Our  difference 
Lies  not  so  deep  as  love  —  as  union 
Through  a  mysterious  fitness  that  transcends 
Formal  agreement. 

Armgart. 

It  lies  deep  enough 
To  chafe  the  union.  If  many  a  man 
Refrains,  degraded,  from  the  utmost  right, 

Because  the  pleadings  of  his  wife’s  small  fears 
Are  little  serpents  biting  at  his  heel  — 

How  shall  a  woman  keep  her  steadfastness 
Beneath  a  frost  within  her  husband’s  eyes 
Where  coldness  scorches  ?  Graf,  it  is  your  sorrow 
That  you  love  Armgart.  Nay,  it  is  her  sorrow 
That  she  may  not  love  you. 

Graf. 

Woman,  it  seems, 
Has  enviable  power  to  love  or  not 
According  to  her  will. 

Armgart. 

She  has  the  will  — 

I  have  —  who  am  one  woman  —  not  to  take 
Disloyal  pledges  that  divide  her  will. 

The  man  who  marries  me  must  wed  my  Art  — 
Honor  and  cherish  it,  not  tolerate. 

Graf. 

The  man  is  yet  to  come  whose  theory 

Will  weigh  as  naught  with  you  against  his  love 

Armgart. 

Whose  theory  will  plead  beside  his  love. 


340 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Graf. 

Himself  a  singer,  then  ?  who  knows  no  life 
Out  of  the  opera  books,  where  tenor  parts 
Are  found  to  suit  him  ? 

Armgart. 

You  are  bitter,  Graf. 

Forgive  me ;  seek  the  woman  you  deserve, 

All  grace,  all  goodness,  who  has  not  yet  found 
A  meaning  in  her  life,  nor  any  end 
Beyond  fulfilling  yours.  The  type  abounds. 

Graf. 

And  happily,  for  the  world. 

Armgart. 

Yes,  happily. 

Let  it  excuse  me  that  my  kind  is  rare : 
Commonness  is  its  own  security. 

Graf. 

Armgart,  I  would  with  all  my  soul  I  knew 
The  man  so  rare  that  he  could  make  your  life 
As  woman  sweet  to  you,  as  artist  safe. 

Armgart. 

Oh,  I  can  live  unmated,  but  not  live 
Without  the  bliss  of  singing  to  the  world, 

And  feeling  all  my  world  respond  to  me. 

Graf. 

May  it  be  lasting.  Then,  we  two  must  part  ? 

Armgart. 

T  thank  you  from  my  heart  for  all.  Farewell! 


ARMGART. 


841 


SCENE  IIL 
A  YEAR  LATER. 

same  salon.  Walpurga  is  standing  looking  toward 
the  window  with  an  air  °f  uneasiness.  Doctor 
Grahn. 

Doctor. 

Where  is  my  patient,  Fraulein  ? 

Walpurga. 

Fled!  escaped! 

Gone  to  rehearsal.  Is  it  dangerous  ? 

Doctor. 

No,  no ;  her  throat  is  cured.  I  only  came 
To  hear  her  try  her  voice.  Had  she  yet  sung  ? 

Walpurga. 

No ;  she  had  meant  to  wait  for  you.  She  said, 

«  The  Doctor  has  a  right  to  my  first  song.” 

Her  gratitude  was  full  of  little  plans, 

But  all  were  swept  away  like  gathered  flowers 
By  sudden  storm.  She  saw  this  opera  bill  — 

It  was  a  wasp  to  sting  her :  she  turned  pale, 
Snatched  up  her  hat  and  mufflers,  said  in  haste, 
a  I  go  to  Leo  —  to  rehearsal  —  none 
Shall  sing  Fidelio  to-night  but  me  !  ” 

Then  rushed  down-stairs. 

Doctor  (looking  at  his  watch). 

And  this,  not  long  ago  ? 


842 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Walpurga. 

Barely  an  hour. 

Doctor. 

I  will  come  again, 

Returning  from  Charlottenburg  at  one. 

Walpurga. 

Doctor,  I  feel  a  strange  presentiment. 

Are  you  quite  easy  ? 

Doctor. 

She  can  take  no  harm. 

’T  was  time  for  her  to  sing :  her  throat  is  well, 
It  was  a  fierce  attack,  and  dangerous ; 

I  had  to  use  strong  remedies,  but  —  well ! 

At  one,  dear  Fraulein,  we  shall  meet  again. 


SCENE  IV. 

TWO  HOURS  LATER. 

Walpurga  starts  up,  looking  toward  the  door.  Arm- 
gart  enters,  followed  by  Leo.  She  throws  herself  on 
a  chair  which  stands  with  its  back  toward  the  door, 
speechless,  not  seeming  to  see  anything .  W alpurga 
casts  a  questioning  terrified  look  at  Leo.  He  shrugs 
his  shoulders,  and  lifts  up  his  hands,  behind  Arm  gart, 
who  sits  like  a  helpless  image,  while  W alpurga  takes 
off  her  hat  and  mantle. 

Walpurga. 

Armgart,  dear  Armgart  ( kneeling  and  taking  her  hands), 
only  speak  to  me, 


“  Armgart,  dear  Armgart,  only  speak  to  me.” 


' 


ARMGART. 


348 


Your  poor  Walpurga.  Oh,  your  hands  are  cold. 

Clasp  mine,  and  warm  them  !  I  will  kiss  them  warm. 

(Armgart  looks  at  her  an  instant ,  then  draws  away 
her  hands,  and,  turning  aside,  buries  her  face 
against  the  back  of  the  chair ,  Walpurga  rising 
and  standing  near.  Doctor  Grahn  enters .) 

Doctor. 

News  !  stirring  news  to-day  !  wonders  come  thick. 

Armgart  ( starting  up  at  the  first  sound  of  his  voice , 
and  speaking  vehemently). 

Yes,  thick,  thick,  thick  !  and  you  have  murdered  it ! 
Murdered  my  voice  —  poisoned  the  soul  in  me, 

And  kept  me  living. 

You  never  told  me  that  your  cruel  cures 

Were  clogging  films  —  a  mouldy,  dead’ning  blight* — 

A  lava-mud  to  crust  and  bury  me, 

Yet  hold  me  living  in  a  deep,  deep  tomb, 

Crying  unheard  forever  !  Oh,  your  cures 
Are  devil’s  triumphs  :  you  can  rob,  maim,  slay, 

And  keep  a  hell  on  the  other  side  your  cure 
Where  you  can  see  your  victim  quivering 
Between  the  teeth  of  torture  —  see  a  soul 
Made  keen  by  loss  —  all  anguish  with  a  good 
Once  known  and  gone  ! 

( Turns  and  sinks  back  on  her  chair.) 
0  misery,  misery ! 

You  might  have  killed  me,  might  have  let  me  sleep 
After  my  happy  day  and  wake  —  not  here  ! 

In  some  new  unremembered  world  —  not  here, 

Where  all  is  faded,  flat  —  a  feast  broke  off  — 

Banners  all  meaningless  —  exulting  words 
Dull,  dull  —  a  drum  that  lingers  in  the  air 
Beating  to  melody  which  no  man  hears. 


S*4  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Doctor  ( after  a  moment's  silence). 

k  sudden  check  has  shaken  you,  poor  child ! 

All  things  seem  livid,  tottering  to  your  sense, 

From  inward  tumult.  Stricken  by  a  threat 
You  see  your  terrors  only.  Tell  me,  Leo : 

?T  is  not  such  utter  loss. 

(Leo,  with  a  shrug,  goes  quietly  out. ) 
The  freshest  bloom 

Merely,  has  left  the  fruit ;  the  fruit  itself  .... 

Armgart. 

Is  ruined,  withered,  is  a  thing  to  hide 
Away  from  scorn  or  pity.  Oh,  you  stand 
And  look  compassionate  now,  but  when  Death  came 
With  mercy  in  his  hands,  you  hindered  him. 

I  did  not  choose  to  live  and  have  your  pity. 

You  never  told  me,  never  gave  me  choice 
To  die  a  singer,  lightning-struck,  unmaimed, 

Or  live  what  you  would  make  me  with  your  cures  — 
A  self  accursed  with  consciousness  of  change, 

A  mind  that  lives  in  naught  but  members  lopped, 

A  power  turned  to  pain  —  as  meaningless 
As  letters  fallen  asunder  that  once  made 
A  hymn  of  rapture.  Oh,  I  had  meaning  once 
Like  day  and  sweetest  air.  What  am  I  now  ? 

The  millionth  woman  in  superfluous  herds. 

Why  should  I  be,  do,  think  ?  ’T  is  thistle-seed, 

That  grows  and  grows  to  feed  the  rubbish-heap. 

Leave  me  alone  I 


Doctor. 

Well,  I  will  come  again; 

Send  for  me  when  you  will,  though  but  to  rate  m.0- 
That  is  medicinal  —  a  letting  blood. 


ARMGART. 


345 


Armgart. 

Oh,  there  is  one  physician,  only  one, 

Who  cures  and  never  spoils.  Him  I  shau  send  for  \ 
He  comes  readily. 

Doctor  (to  Walpurga). 

One  word,  dear  Fraulein. 


SCENE  V. 

ARMGART,  WALPURGA. 
Armgart. 

Walpurga,  have  you  walked  this  morning? 


Walpurga. 

Armgart. 

Go,  then,  and  walk ;  I  wish  to  be  alone. 

Walpurga. 

I  will  not  leave  you. 


No. 


Armgart. 

Will  not,  at  my  wish  ? 


Walpurga. 

Will  not,  because  you  wish  it.  Say  no  more. 

But  take  this  draught. 

Armgart. 

The  Doctor  gave  it  you  V 
It  is  an  anodyne.  Put  it  away. 

He  cured  me  of  my  voice,  and  now  he  wanes 
To  cure  me  of  my  vision  and  resolve  — 


346 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Drug  me  to  sleep  that  I  may  wake  again 

Without  a  purpose,  abject  as  the  rest 

To  bear  the  yoke  of  life.  He  shall  not  cheat  me 

Of  that  fresh  strength  which  anguish  gives  the  soul, 

The  inspiration  of  revolt,  ere  rage 

Slackens  to  faltering.  How  I  see  the  truth. 

Walpurga  ( setting  down  the  glass). 

Then  you  must  see  a  future  in  your  reach, 

With  happiness  enough  to  make  a  dower 
For  two  of  modest  claims. 

Armgart. 

Oh,  you  intone 

That  chant  of  consolation  wherewith  ease 
Makes  itself  easier  in  the  sight  of  pain. 

Walpurga. 

No ;  I  would  not  console  you,  but  rebuke. 

Armgart. 

That  is  more  bearable.  Forgive  me,  dear. 

Say  what  you  will.  But  now  I  want  to  write. 

( She  rises  and  moves  toward  a  table.) 

Walpurga. 

I  say  then,  you  are  simply  fevered,  mad ; 

You  cry  aloud  at  horrors  that  would  vanish 
If  you  would  change  the  light,  throw  into  shade 
The  loss  you  aggrandize,  and  let  day  fall 
On  good  remaining,  nay  on  good  refused 
Which  may  be  gain  now.  Did  you  not  reject 
A  woman’s  lot  more  brilliant,  as  some  held, 

Than  any  singer’s  ?  It  may  still  be  yours. 

Graf  Dornberg  loved  you  well. 


ARMGART. 


347 


Armgart. 

Not  me,  not  me. 

He  loved  one  well  who  was  like  me  in  all 
Save  in  a  voice  which  made  that  All  unlike 
As  diamond  is  to  charcoal.  Oh,  a  man’s  love  ! 
Think  you  he  loves  a  woman’s  inner  self 
Aching  with  loss  of  loveliness  ?  —  as  mothers 
Cleave  to  the  palpitating  pain  that  dwells 
Within  their  misformed  offspring  ? 

Walpurga. 

But  the  Graf 

Chose  you  as  simple  Armgart  —  had  preferred 
That  you  should  never  seek  for  any  fame 
But  such  as  matrons  have  who  rear  great  sons. 

And  therefore  you  rejected  him;  but  now _ 

Armgart. 

-Ay?  now  —  now  he  would  see  me  as  I  am, 

(She  takes  up  a  hand-mirror .} 
Russet  and  songless  as  a  missel-thrush. 

An  ordinary  girl  —  a  plain  brown  girl, 

Who,  if  some  meaning  flash  from  out  her  words, 
Shocks  as  a  disproportioned  thing  —  a  Will 
That,  like  an  arm  astretch  and  broken  off, 

Has  naught  to  hurl  —  the  torso  of  a  souL 

I  sang  him  into  love  of  me  :  my  song 

Was  consecration,  lifted  me  apart 

From  the  crowd  chiselled  like  me,  sister  forms, 

But  empty  of  divineness.  Nay,  my  charm 
Was  half  that  I  could  win  fame  yet  renounce 
A  wife  with  glory  possible  absorbed 
Into  her  husband’s  actual. 

Walpurga. 

For  shame ! 

Armgart,  you  slander  him.  What  would  you  say 


348 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


If  now  he  came  to  you  and  asked  again 
That  you  would  be  his  wife  ? 


Arm  g  art. 

No,  and  thrice  no  I 

It  would  be  pitying  constancy,  not  love, 

That  brought  him  to  me  now.  I  will  not  be 
A  pensioner  in  marriage.  Sacraments 
Are  not  to  feed  the  paupers  of  the  world. 

If  he  were  generous  —  I  am  generous  too. 


Walpurga. 

Proud,  Armgart,  but  not  generous. 


Armgart. 

He  will  not  know  until  — 


Say  no  more* 


Walpurga. 

He  knows  already. 

Armgart  (quickly). 

Is  he  come  back  ? 


Walpurga. 

Yes,  and  will  soon  be  here. 
The  Doctor  had  twice  seen  him  and  would  go 
From  hence  again  to  see  him. 


It  is  all  one. 


Armgart. 

Well,  he  knows. 


Walpurga. 

What  if  he  were  outside  f 
I  hear  a  footstep  in  the  ante-room. 


ARMGART. 


349 


Armgart  (raising  herself  and  assuming  calmness). 

Why  let  him  come,  of  course.  I  shall  behave 
Like  what  I  am,  a  common  personage 
Who  looks  for  nothing  but  civility. 

I  shall  not  play  the  fallen  heroine, 

Assume  a  tragic  part  and  throw  out  cues 
For  a  beseeching  lover. 

Walpurga. 

Some  one  raps. 

( Goes  to  the  door.') 

A  letter  —  from  the  Graf. 

Armgart. 

Then  open  it. 

(Walpurga  still  offers  it.) 
Nay,  my  head  swims.  Read  it.  I  cannot  see. 

(Walpurga  opens  it ,  reads  and  pauses.) 
Read  it.  Have  done  !  No  matter  what  it  is. 

Walpurga  (reads  in  a  low ,  hesitating  voice). 

“  I  am  deeply  moved  —  my  heart  is  rent,  to  hear  of 
your  illness  and  its  cruel  result,  just  now  communicated 
to  me  by  Dr.  Grahn.  But  surely  it  is  possible  that  this 
result  may  not  be  permanent.  For  youth  such  as  yours, 
Time  may  hold  in  store  something  more  than  resigna¬ 
tion  :  who  shall  say  that  it  does  not  hold  renewal  ?  I 
have  not  dared  to  ask  admission  to  you  in  the  hours  of 
a  recent  shock,  but  I  cannot  depart  on  a  long  mission 
without  tendering  my  sympathy  and  my  farewell.  I 
start  this  evening  for  the  Caucasus,  and  thence  I  proceed 
to  India,  where  I  am  intrusted  by  the  Government  with 
business  which  may  be  of  long  duration.” 

(Walpurga  sits  down  dejectedly.) 


$50 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Armgart  ( after  a  slight  shudder ,  bitterly). 

The  Graf  has  much  discretion.  I  am  glad. 

He  spares  us  both  a  pain,  not  seeing  me. 

What  I  like  least  is  that  consoling  hope  — - 
That  empty  cup,  so  neatly  ciphered  “  Time,’* 

Handed  me  as  a  cordial  for  despair. 

{Slowly  and  dreamily)  Time  —  what  a  word  to  fling  as 
charity  ! 

Bland  neutral  word  for  slow,  dull-beating  pain  — 

Hays,  months,  and  years  !  —  If  I  would  wait  for  them. 

{She  takes  up  her  hat  and  puts  it  on ,  then  wraps 
her  mantle  round  her .  Walpurga  leaves  the 

room.) 

Why,  this  is  but  beginning.  (Walpurga  re-enters.)  Kiss 
me,  dear. 

I  am  going  now  —  alone  —  out  —  for  a  walk. 

Say  you  will  never  wound  me  any  more 
With  such  cajolery  as  nurses  use 
To  patients  amorous  of  a  crippled  life. 

Flatter  the  blind :  I  see. 

Walpurga. 

Well,  I  was  wrong. 

In  haste  to  soothe,  I  snatched  at  flickers  merely. 

Believe  me,  I  will  flatter  you  no  more. 

Armgart. 

Bear  witness,  I  am  calm.  I  read  my  lot 
As  soberly  as  if  it  were  a  tale 
Writ  by  a  creeping  feuilletonist  and  called 
“ The  Woman’s  Lot:  a  Tale  of  Everyday : ” 

A  middling  woman’s,  to  impress  the  world 
With  high  superfluousness  ;  her  thoughts  a  crop 
Of  chick-weed  errors  or  of  pot-herb  facts, 

Smiled  at  like  some  child’s  drawing  on  a  slate. 


ARMGART. 


351 


*  Genteel  ?  ”  “  Oh  yes,  gives  lessons  ;  not  so  good 

As  any  man’s  would  be,  but  cheaper  far.” 

“ Pretty  ?  ”  “No ;  yet  she  makes  a  figure  fit 

For  good  society.  Poor  thing,  she  sews 

Both  late  and  early,  turns  and  alters  all 

To  suit  the  changing  mode.  Some  widower 

Might  do  well,  marrying  her ;  but  in  these  days  ! .  . . « 

Well,  she  can  somewhat  eke  her  narrow  gains 

By  writing,  just  to  furnish  her  with  gloves 

And  droschkies  in  the  rain.  They  print  her  tilings 

Often  for  charity.”  —  Oh,  a  dog’s  life  ! 

A  harnessed  dog’s,  that  draws  a  little  cart 
Voted  a  nuisance  !  I  am  going  now. 

Walpurga. 

Not  now,  the  door  is  locked. 

Armgart. 

Give  me  the  key ! 

Walpurga. 

Locked  on  the  outside.  Gretchen  has  the  key : 

She  is  gone  on  errands. 

Armgart. 

What,  you  dare  to  keep  me 

Your  prisoner  ? 

Walpurga. 

And  have  I  not  been  yours  ? 

Your  wish  has  been  a  bolt  to  keep  me  in. 

Perhaps  that  middling  woman  whom  you  paint 
With  far-off  scorn  .... 

Armgart. 

I  paint  what  I  must  be  l 
What  is  my  soul  to  me  without  the  voice 


352 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


That  gave  it  freedom  ?  —  gave  it  one  grand  touch 
And  made  it  nobly  human  ?  —  Prisoned  now, 
Prisoned  in  all  the  petty  mimicries 
Called  woman’s  knowledge,  that  will  fit  the  world 
As  doll-clothes  fit  a  man.  I  can  do  naught 
Better  than  what  a  million  women  do  — 

Must  drudge  among  the  crowd  and  feel  my  life 
Beating  upon  the  world  without  response, 

Beating  with  passion  through  an  insect’s  horn 
That  moves  a  millet-seed  laboriously. 

If  I  would  do  it ! 

Walpurga  {coldly). 

And  why  should  you  not  ? 

Armgart  {turning  quickly). 

Because  Heaven  made  me  royal — wrought  me  out 
With  subtle  finish  toward  pre-eminence, 

Made  every  channel  of  my  soul  converge 
To  one  high  function,  and  then  flung  me  down, 
That  breaking  I  might  turn  to  subtlest  pain. 

An  inborn  passion  gives  a  rebel’s  right : 

I  would  rebel  and  die  in  twenty  worlds 
Sooner  than  bear  the  yoke  of  thwarted  life, 

Each  keenest  sense  turned  into  keen  distaste, 
Hunger  not  satisfied  but  kept  alive 
Breathing  in  languor  half  a  century. 

All  the  world  now  is  but  a  rack  of  threads 
To  twist  and  dwarf  me  into  pettiness 
And  basely  feigned  content,  the  placid  mask 
Of  women’s  misery. 

Walpurga  {indignantly). 

Ay,  such  a  mask 
As  the  few  born  like  you  to  easy  joy, 


ARMGART. 


353 


Cradled  in  privilege,  take  for  natural 
On  all  the  lowly  faces  that  must  look 
Upward  to  you  !  What  revelation  now 
Shows  you  the  mask  or  gives  presentiment 
Of  sadness  hidden  ?  You  who  every  day 
These  five  years  saw  me  limp  to  wait  on  you, 

And  thought  the  order  perfect  which  gave  me> 

The  girl  without  pretension  to  be  aught, 

A  splendid  cousin  for  my  happiness  : 

To  watch  the  night  through  when  her  brain  was  fired 

With  too  much  gladness  —  listen,  always  listen 

To  what  she  felt,  who  having  power  had  right 

To  feel  exorbitantly,  and  submerge 

The  souls  around  her  with  the  poured-out  flood 

Of  what  must  be  ere  she  was  satisfied  ! 

That  was  feigned  patience,  was  it  ?  Why  not  love, 
Love  nurtured  even  with  that  strength  of  self 
Which  found  no  room  save  in  another’s  life  ? 

Oh,  such  as  I  know  joy  by  negatives, 

And  all  their  deepest  passion  is  a  pang 
Till  they  accept  their  pauper’s  heritage, 

And  meekly  live  from  out  the  general  store 
Of  joy  they  were  born  stripped  of.  I  accept  — 

Nay,  now  would  sooner  choose  it  than  the  wealth 
Of  natures  you  call  royal,  who  can  live 
In  mere  mock  knowledge  of  their  fellows’  woe, 
Thinking  their  smiles  may  heal  it. 

Armgart  ( tremulously ). 

Nay,  Walpurga, 

I  did  not  make  a  palace  of  my  joy 
To  shut  the  world’s  truth  from  me.  All  my  good 
Was  that  I  touched  the  world  and  made  a  part 
In  the  world’s  dower  of  beauty,  strength,  and  bliss  : 
It  was  the  glimpse  of  consciousness  divine 

23 


354 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Which  pours  out  day  and  sees  the  day  is  good. 

Now  I  am  fallen  dark ;  I  sit  in  gloom, 

Remembering  bitterly.  Yet  you  speak  truth; 

I  wearied  you,  it  seems ;  took  all  your  help 
As  cushioned  nobles  use  a  weary  serf, 

Not  looking  at  his  face. 

Walpurga. 

Oh,  I  but  stand 

As  a  small  symbol  for  the  mighty  sum 
Of  claims  unpaid  to  needy  myriads ; 

I  think  you  never  set  your  loss  beside 
That  mighty  deficit.  Is  your  work  gone  — ■ 

The  prouder  queenly  work  that  paid  itself 
And  yet  was  overpaid  with  men’s  applause  ? 

Are  you  no  longer  chartered,  privileged, 

But  sunk  to  simple  woman’s  penury, 

To  ruthless  Nature’s  chary  average  — 

Where  is  the  rebel’s  right  for  you  alone  ? 

Noble  rebellion  lifts  a  common  load ; 

But  what  is  he  who  flings  his  own  load  off 
And  leaves  his  fellows  toiling  ?  Rebel’s  right  ? 

Say  rather,  the  deserter’s.  Oh,  you  smiled 
From  your  clear  height  on  all  the  million  lots 
Which  yet  you  brand  as  abject. 

Armgart. 

I  was  blind 

With  too  much  happiness  :  true  vision  comes 
Only,  it  seems,  with  sorrow.  Were  there  one 
This  moment  near  me,  suffering  what  I  feel, 

And  needing  me  for  comfort  in  her  pang  — 

Then  it  were  worth  the  while  to  live ;  not  else. 

Walpurga. 

One  —  near  you  —  why,  they  throng!  you  hardly  stir 
But  your  act  touches  them.  We  touch  afar. 


ARMGART. 


For  did  not  swarthy  slaves  of  yesterday 
Leap  in  their  bondage  at  the  Hebrews’  flight, 

Which  touched  them  through  the  thrice  millennial  dark  ? 
But  you  can  find  the  sufferer  you  need 
With  touch  less  subtle. 


Armgart. 

Who  has  need  of  me  ? 
Walpurga. 

Love  finds  the  need  it  fills.  But  you  are  hard. 

Armgart. 

Is  it  not  you,  Walpurga,  who  are  hard  ? 

You  humored  all  my  wishes  till  to-day, 

When  fate  has  blighted  me. 

Walpurga. 

You  would  not  hear 

The  “  chant  of  consolation  : ”  words  of  hope 
Only  imbittered  you.  Then  hear  the  truth  — 

A  lame  girl’s  truth,  whom  no  one  ever  praised 
For  being  cheerful.  “  It  is  well,”  they  said : 

“Were  she  cross-grained  she  could  not  be  endured.” 
A  word  of  truth  from  her  had  startled  you ; 

But  you  —  you  claimed  the  universe  ;  naught  less 
Than  all  existence  working  in  sure  tracks 
Toward  your  supremacy.  The  wheels  might  scathe 
A  myriad  destinies  —  nay,  must  perforce  ; 

But  yours  they  must  keep  clear  of ;  just  for  you 
The  seething  atoms  through  the  firmament 
Must  bear  a  human  heart  —  which  you  had  not ! 

For  what  is  it  to  you  that  women,  men, 

Plod,  faint,  are  weary,  and  espouse  despair 
Of  aught  but  fellowship  ?  Save  that  you  spurn 
To  be  among  them  ?  Now,  then,  you  are  lame  — 


356 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Maimed,  as  yon  said,  and  levelled  with  the  crowd : 

Call  it  new  birth  —  birth  from  that  monstrous  Self 
Which,  smiling  down  upon  a  race  oppressed, 

Says,  “  All  is  good,  for  I  am  throned  at  ease.” 

Dear  Armgart  —  nay,  you  tremble  —  I  am  cruel. 

Armgart. 

Oh  no  !  hark !  Some  one  knocks.  Come  in !  —  come  in ! 

( Enter  Leo.) 

Leo. 

See,  Gretchen  let  me  in.  I  could  not  rest 
Longer  away  from  you. 

Armgart. 

Sit  down,  dear  Leo. 

Walpurga,  I  would  speak  with  him  alone. 

(Walpurga  goes  out.') 

Leo  ( hesitatingly ). 

You  mean  to  walk  ? 

Armgart. 

No,  I  shall  stay  within. 

(She  takes  off  her  hat  and  mantle ,  and  sits  down 
immediately.  After  a  pause ,  speaking  in  a  sub¬ 
dued  tone  to  Leo.) 

How  old  are  you  ? 

Leo. 

Threescore  and  five. 

Armgart. 

That  *s  old 

I  never  thought  till  now  how  you  have  lived. 

They  hardly  ever  play  your  music  ? 


ARMGART. 


357 


Leo  {raising  his  eyebrows  and  throwing  out  his  lip ). 

No! 

Schubert  too  wrote  for  silence :  half  his  work 
Lay  like  a  frozen  Rhine  till  summers  came 
That  warmed  the  grass  above  him.  Even  so ! 

Idis  music  lives  now  with  a  mighty  youth. 

Arm  g  art. 

Do  you  think  yours  will  live  when  you  are  dead  ? 

Leo. 

Pfui !  The  time  was,  I  drank  that  home-brewed  wine 
And  found  it  heady,  while  my  blood  was  young: 

Now  it  scarce  warms  me.  Tipple  it  as  I  may, 

I  am  sober  still,  and  say :  “My  old  friend  Leo, 

Much  grain  is  wasted  in  the  world  and  rots ; 

Why  not  thy  handful  ?  ” 

Armgart. 

Strange  !  since  I  have  known  you 
Till  now  I  never  wondered  how  you  lived. 

When  I  sang  well  —  that  was  your  jubilee. 

But  you  were  old  already. 

Leo. 

Yes,  child,  yes: 

Youth  thinks  itself  the  goal  of  each  old  life  5 
Age  has  but  travelled  from  a  far-off  time 
Just  to  be  ready  for  youth’s  service.  Well! 

It  was  my  chief  delight  to  perfect  you. 

Akmgart. 

Good  Leo !  You  have  lived  on  little  joys. 

But  your  delight  in  me  is  crushed  forever. 

Your  pains,  where  are  they  now  ?  They  shaped  intent 


358 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Which  action  frustrates ;  shaped  an  inward  sense 
Which  is  but  keen  despair,  the  agony 
Of  highest  vision  in  the  lowest  pit. 

Leo. 

Nay,  nay,  I  have  a  thought :  keep  to  the  stage, 

To  drama  without  song ;  for  you  can  act  — 

Who  knows  how  well,  when  all  the  soul  is  poured 
Into  that  sluice  alone. 

Armgart. 

I  know,  and  you : 

The  second  or  third  best  in  tragedies 
That  cease  to  touch  the  fibre  of  the  time. 

No ;  song  is  gone,  but  nature’s  other  gift, 

Self -judgment,  is  not  gone.  Song  was  my  speech, 

And  with  its  impulse  only,  action  came  : 

Song  was  the  battle’s  onset,  when  cool  purpose 

Glows  into  rage,  becomes  a  warring  god 

And  moves  the  limbs  with  miracle.  But  now  — 

Oh,  I  should  stand  hemmed  in  with  thoughts  and  rules 
Say,  “  This  way  passion  acts,”  yet  never  feel 
The  might  of  passion.  How  should  I  declaim  ? 

As  monsters  write  with  feet  instead  of  hands. 

I  will  not  feed  on  doing  great  tasks  ill, 

Dull  the  world’s  sense  with  mediocrity, 

And  live  by  trash  that  smothers  excellence. 

One  gift  I  had  that  ranked  me  with  the  best  — 

The  secret  of  my  frame  —  and  that  is  gone. 

For  all  life  now  I  am  a  broken  thing. 

But  silence  there !  Good  Leo,  advise  me  now. 

I  would  take  humble  work  and  do  it  well  — 

Teach  music,  singing  —  what  I  can  —  not  here, 

But  in  some  smaller  town  where  I  may  bring 
The  method  you  have  taught  me,  pass  your  gift 


ARMGART. 


859 


To  others  who  can  use  it  for  delight. 

You  think  I  can  do  that  ? 

(She pauses  with  a  sob  in  her  voice.) 
Leo. 

Yes,  yes,  dear  child  ! 

And  it  were  well,  perhaps,  to  change  the  place  — 
Begin  afresh  as  I  did  when  I  left 
Vienna  with  a  heart  half  broken. 

Armgart  ( roused  by  surprise). 

You  ? 

Leo. 

Well,  it  is  long  ago.  But  I  had  lost  — 

No  matter !  We  must  bury  our  dead  joys 
And  live  above  them  with  a  living  world. 

But  whither,  think  you,  you  would  like  to  go  ? 


Armgart. 

To  Freiburg. 

Leo. 

In  the  Breisgau  ? 
It  is  too  small. 

Akmgart. 


And  why  there  ? 


Walpurga  was  born  there, 

And  loves  the  place.  She  quitted  it  for  me 
These  five  years  past.  Now  I  will  take  her  there. 
Dear  Leo,  I  will  bury  my  dead  joy. 

Leo. 

Mothers  do  so,  bereaved ;  then  learn  to  love 
Another’s  living  child. 

Armgart. 

Oh,  it  is  hard 

To  take  the  little  corpse,  and  lay  it  low, 


360 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


And  say,  “None  misses  it  but  me.” 
She  sings  .... 

I  mean  Paulina  sings  Fidelio, 

And  they  will  welcome  her  to-night. 


Leo. 


Well,  well, 

’T  is  better  that  our  griefs  should  not  spread  far. 


1870. 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING. 


SIX  hundred  years  ago,  in  Dante’s  time, 

Before  his  cheek  was  furrowed  by  deep  rhyme — - 
When  Europe,  fed  afresh  from  Eastern  story, 

Was  like  a  garden  tangled  with  the  glory 
Of  flowers  hand-planted  and  of  flowers  air-sown, 
Climbing  and  trailing,  budding  and  full-blown, 

Where  purple  bells  are  tossed  amid  pink  stars, 

And  springing  blades,  green  troops  in  innocent  wars, 
Crowd  every  shady  spot  of  teeming  earth, 

Making  invisible  motion  visible  birth  — 

Six  hundred  years  ago,  Palermo  town 
Kept  holiday.  A  deed  of  great  renown, 

A  high  revenge,  had  freed  it  froiii  the  yoke 
Of  hated  Frenchmen,  and  from  Calpe’s  rock 
To  where  the  Bosporus  caught  the  earlier  sun, 

JT  was  told  that  Pedro,  King  of  Aragon, 

Was  welcomed  master  of  all  Sicily, 

A  royal  knight,  supreme  as  kings  should  be 
In  strength  and  gentleness  that  make  high  chivalry. 

Spain  was  the  favorite  home  of  knightly  grace, 

Where  generous  men  rode  steeds  of  generous  race ; 
Both  Spanish,  yet  half  Arab,  both  inspired 
By  mutual  spirit,  that  each  motion  fired 
With  beauteous  response,  like  minstrelsy 
Afresh  fulfilling  fresh  expectancy. 

So  when  Palermo  made  high  festival, 

The  joy  of  matrons  and  of  maidens  all 


■362 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Was  the  inock  terror  of  the  tournament, 

Where  safety,  with  the  glimpse  of  danger  blent, 

Took  exaltation  as  from  epic  song, 

Which  greatly  tells  the  pains  that  to  great  life  belong. 
And  in  all  eyes  King  Pedro  was  the  king 
Of  cavaliers  :  as  in  a  full-gemmed  ring 
The  largest  ruby,  or  as  that  bright  star 
Whose  shining  shows  us  where  the  Hyads  are. 

His  the  best  jennet,  and  he  sat  it  best ; 

His  weapon,  whether  tilting  or  in  rest, 

WTas  worthiest  watching,  and  his  face  once  seen 
Gave  to  the  promise  of  his  royal  mien 
Such  rich  fulfilment  as  the  opened  eyes 
Of  a  loved  sleeper,  or  the  long-watched  rise 
Of  vernal  day,  whose  joy  o’er  stream  and  meadow  flies. 

But  of  the  maiden  forms  that  thick  enwreathed 
The  broad  piazza  and  sweet  witchery  breathed, 

With  innocent  faces  budding  all  arow 
From  balconies  and  windows  high  and  low, 

Who  was  it  felt  the  deep  mysterious  glow, 

The  impregnation  with  supernal  fire 
Of  young  ideal  love  —  transformed  desire, 

Whose  passion  is  but  worship  of  that  Best 

Taught  by  the  many-mingled  creed  of  each  young  breast  ? 

’T  was  gentle  Lisa,  of  no  noble  line, 

Child  of  Bernardo,  a  rich  Florentine, 

Who  from  his  merchant-city  hither  came 
To  trade  in  drugs  ;  yet  kept  an  honest  fame, 

And  had  the  virtue  not  to  try  and  sell 
Drugs  that  had  none.  He  loved  his  riches  well, 

But  loved  them  chiefly  for  his  Lisa’s  sake, 

Wrhom  with  a  father’s  care  he  sought  to  make 
The  bride  of  some  true  honorable  man: 

Of  Perdicone  (so  the  rumor  ran), 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING. 


363 


Whose  birth  was  higher  than  his  fortunes  were ; 

For  still  your  trader  likes  a  mixture  fair 
Of  blood  that  hurries  to  some  higher  strain 
Than  reckoning  money’s  loss  and  money’s  gain. 

And  of  such  mixture  good  may  surely  come : 

Lords’  scions  so  may  learn  to  cast  a  sum, 

A  trader’s  grandson  bear  a  well-set  head, 

And  have  less  conscious  manners,  better  bred ; 

Nor,  when  he  tries  to  be  polite,  be  rude  instead. 

5T  was  Perdicone’s  friends  made  overtures 
To  good  Bernardo :  so  one  dame  assures 
Her  neighbor  dame  who  notices  the  youth 
Fixing  his  eyes  on  Lisa  ;  and  in  truth 
Eyes  that  could  see  her  on  this  summer  day 
Might  find  it  hard  to  turn  another  way. 

She  had  a  pensive  beauty,  yet  not  sad ; 

Rather,  like  minor  cadences  that  glad 

The  hearts  of  little  birds  amid  spring  boughs ; 

And  oft  the  trumpet  or  the  joust  would  rouse 
Pulses  that  gave  her  cheek  a  finer  glow, 

Parting  her  lips  that  seemed  a  mimic  bow 
By  chiselling  Love  for  play  in  coral  wrought, 

Then  quickened  by  him  with  the  passionate  thought, 
The  soul  that  trembled  in  the  lustrous  night 
Of  slow  long  eyes.  Her  body  was  so  slight, 

It  seemed  she  could  have  floated  in  the  sky, 

And  with  the  angelic  choir  made  symphony ; 

But  in  her  cheek’s  rich  tinge,  and  in  the  dark 
Of  darkest  hair  and  eyes,  she  bore  a  mark 
Of  kinship  to  her  generous  mother  earth, 

The  fervid  land  that  gives  the  plumy  palm-trees  birth. 

She  saw  not  Perdicone  ;  her  young  mind 
Dreamed  not  that  any  man  hnd  ever  pined 


364 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


For  such  a  little  simple  maid  as  she : 

She  had  but  dreamed  how  heavenly  it  would  be 
To  love  some  hero  noble,  beauteous,  great, 

Who  would  live  stories  worthy  to  narrate, 

Like  Roland,  or  the  warriors  of  Troy, 

The  Cid,  or  Amadis,  or  that  fair  boy 
Who  conquered  everything  beneath  the  sun, 

And  somehow,  some  time,  died  at  Babylon 
Fighting  the  Moors.  For  heroes  all  were  good 
And  fair  as  that  archangel  who  withstood 
The  Evil  One,  the  author  of  all  wrong  — 

That  Evil  One  who  made  the  French  so  strong ; 

And  now  the  flower  of  heroes  must  be  he 
Who  drove  those  tyrants  from  dear  Sicily, 

So  that  her  maids  might  walk  to  vespers  tranquilly. 

Young  Lisa  saw  this  hero  in  the  king, 

And  as  wood-lilies  that  sweet  odors  bring 
Might  dream  the  light  that  opes  their  modest  eyne 
Was  lily-odored  —  and  as  rites  divine, 

Round  turf-laid  altars,  or  ’neath  roofs  of  stone, 
Draw  sanctity  from  out  the  heart  alone 
That  loves  and  worships,  so  the  miniature 
Perplexed  of  her  soul’s  world,  all  virgin  pure, 

Filled  with  heroic  virtues  that  bright  form, 

Raona’s  royalty,  the  finished  norm 
Of  horsemanship  —  the  half  of  chivalry  : 

For  how  could  generous  men  avengers  be, 

Save  as  God’s  messengers  on  coursers  fleet  ?  — 
These,  scouring  earth,  made  Spain  with  Syria  meet 
In  one  self  world  where  the  same  right  had  sway, 
And  good  must  grow  as  grew  the  blessed  day. 

No  more ;  great  Love  his  essence  had  endued 
With  Pedro’s  form,  and  entering  subdued 
The  soul  of  Lisa,  fervid  and  intense, 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING. 


365 


Proud  in  its  choice  of  proud  obedience 
To  hardship  glorified  by  perfect  reverence. 

Sweet  Lisa  homeward  carried  that  dire  guest, 

And  in  her  chamber  through  the  hours  of  rest 
The  darkness  was  alight  for  her  with  sheen 
Of  arms,  and  plumed  helm,  and  bright  between 
Their  commoner  gloss,  like  the  pure  living  spring 
’Twixt  porphyry  lips,  or  living  bird’s  bright  wing 
’Twixt  golden  wires,  the  glances  of  the  king 
Flashed  on  her  soul,  and  waked  vibrations  there 
Of  known  delights  love-mixed  to  new  and  rare : 

The  impalpable  dream  was  turned  to  breathing  flesh. 
Chill  thought  of  summer  to  the  warm  close  mesh 
Of  sunbeams  held  between  the  citron-leaves, 

Clothing  her  life  of  life.  Oh,  she  believes 
That  she  could  be  content  if  he  but  knew 
(Her  poor  small  self  could  claim  no  other  due) 

How  Lisa’s  lowly  love  had  highest  reach 
Of  winged  passion,  whereto  winged  speech 
Would  be  scorched  remnants  left  by  mountain  flame. 
Though,  had  she  such  lame  message,  were  it  blame 
To  tell  what  greatness  dwelt  in  her,  what  rank 
She  held  in  loving  ?  Modest  maidens  shrank 
From  telling  love  that  fed  on  selfish  hope ; 

But  love,  as  hopeless  as  the  shattering  song 
Wailed  for  loved  beings  who  have  joined  the  throng 

Of  mighty  dead  ones . Hay,  but  she  was  weak  — 

Knew  only  prayers  and  ballads  —  could  not  speak 
With  eloquence  save  what  dumb  creatures  have, 

That  with  small  cries  and  touches  small  boons  crave.  . 
She  watched  all  day  that  she  might  see  him  pass 
With  knights  and  ladies  ;  but  she  said,  “  Alas! 

Though  he  should  see  me,  it  were  all  as  one 
He  saw  a  pigeon  sitting  on  the  stone 


366 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Of  wall  or  balcony :  some  colored  spot 
His  eye  just  sees,  liis  mind  regardeth  not. 

I  have  no  music-touch  that  could  bring  nigh 
My  love  to  his  soul’s  hearing.  I  shall  die, 

And  he  will  never  know  who  Lisa  was  — 

The  trader’s  child,  whose  soaring  spirit  rose 
As  hedge-born  aloe-flowers  that  rarest  years  disclose. 

“  For  were  I  now  a  fair  deep-breasted  queen 
A-horseback,  with  blonde  hair,  and  tunic  greei. 
Gold-bordered,  like  Costanza,  I  should  need 
No  change  within  to  make  me  queenly  there ; 

For  they  the  royal-hearted  women  are 
Who  nobly  love  the  noblest,  yet  have  grace 
For  needy  suffering  lives  in  lowliest  place, 

Carrying  a  choicer  sunlight  in  their  smile, 

The  heavenliest  ray  that  pitieth  the  vile. 

My  love  is  such,  it  cannot  choose  but  soar 
Up  to  the  highest ;  yet  forevermore, 

Though  I  were  happy,  throned  beside  the  king, 

I  should  be  tender  to  each  little  thing 
With  hurt  warm  breast,  that  had  no  speech  to  tell 
Its  inward  pang,  and  I  would  soothe  it  well 
With  tender  touch  and  with  a  low  soft  moan 
For  company  :  my  dumb  love-pang  is  lone, 

Prisoned  as  topaz-beam  within  a  rough-garbed  stone.” 

So,  inward-wailing,  Lisa  passed  her  days. 

Each  night  the  August  moon  with  changing  phase 
Looked  broader,  harder  on  her  unchanged  pain ; 

Each  noon  the  heat  lay  heavier  again 
On  her  despair ;  until  her  body  frail 
Shrank  like  the  snow  that  watchers  in  the  vale 
See  narrowed  on  the  height  each  summer  morn ; 
While  her  dark  glance  burnt  larger,  more  forlorn, 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING. 


367 


As  if  the  soul  within  her  all  on  fire 
Made  of  her  being  one  swift  funeral  pyre. 

Father  and  mother  saw  with  sad  dismay 
The  meaning  of  their  riches  melt  away : 

For  without  Lisa  what  would  sequins  buy  ? 

What  wish  were  left  if  Lisa  were  to  die  ? 

Through  her  they  cared  for  summers  still  to  come, 
Else  they  would  be  as  ghosts  without  a  home 
In  any  flesh  that  could  feel  glad  desire. 

They  pay  the  best  physicians,  never  tire 
Of  seeking  what  will  soothe  her,  promising 
That  aught  she  longed  for,  though  it  were  a  thing 
Hard  to  be  come  at  as  the  Indian  snow, 

Or  roses  that  on  Alpine  summits  blow  — 

It  should  be  hers.  She  answers  with  low  voice, 
She  longs  for  death  alone  —  death  is  her  choice ; 
Death  is  the  King  who  never  did  think  scorn, 

But  rescues  every  meanest  soul  to  sorrow  born. 

Yet  one  day,  as  they  bent  above  her  bed 
And  watched  her  in  brief  sleep,  her  drooping  head 
Turned  gently,  as  the  thirsty  flowers  that  feel 
Some  moist  revival  through  their  petals  steal, 

And  little  flutterings  of  her  lids  and  lips 
Told  of  such  dreamy  joy  as  sometimes  dips 
A  skyey  shadow  in  the  mind’s  poor  pool, 

She  oped  her  eyes,  and  turned  their  dark  gems  full 
Upon  her  father,  as  in  utterance  dumb 
Of  some  new  prayer  that  in  her  sleep  had  come. 

“  What  is  it,  Lisa  ?  ”  “  Father,  I  would  see 

Minuccio,  the  great  singer ;  bring  him  me.” 

For  always,  night  and  day,  her  unstilled  thought, 
Wandering  all  o’er  its  little  world,  had  sought 
How  she  could  reach,  by  some  soft  pleading  touch, 
King  Pedro’s  soul,  that  she  who  loved  so  much 


368 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Dying,  might  have  a  place  within  his  mind  — 

A  little  grave  which  he  would  sometimes  find 
And  plant  some  flower  on  it  —  some  thought,  some  mem- 
ory  kind, 

Till  in  her  dream  she  saw  Minuccio 
Touching  his  viola,  and  chanting  low 
A  strain  that,  falling  on  her  brokenly, 

Seemed  blossoms  lightly  blown  from  off  a  tree, 

Each  burdened  with  a  word  that  was  a  scent  — 

Raona,  Lisa,  love,  death,  tournament ; 

Then  in  her  dream  she  said,  u  He  sings  of  me  — 

Might  be  my  messenger ;  ah,  now  I  see 
The  king  is  listening  —  ”  Then  she  awoke, 

And,  missing  her  dear  dream,  that  new-born  longing  spoke. 

She  longed  for  music :  that  was  natural ; 

Physicians  said  it  was  medicinal ; 

The  humors  might  be  schooled  by  true  consent 
Of  a  fine  tenor  and  fine  instrument ; 

In  brief,  good  music,  mixed  with  doctor’s  stuff, 

Apollo  with  Asklepios  —  enough  ! 

Minuccio,  entreated,  gladly  came. 

(He  was  a  singer  of  most  gentle  fame  — 

A  noble,  kindly  spirit,  not  elate 

That  he  was  famous,  but  the  song  was  great  — 

Would  sing  as  finely  to  this  suffering  child 
As  at  the  court  where  princes  on  him  smiled.) 

Gently  he  entered  and  sat  down  by  her, 

Asking  what  sort  of  strain  she  would  prefer  — 

The  voice  alone,  or  voice  with  viol  wed ; 

Then,  when  she  chose  the  last,  he  preluded 
With  magic  hand,  that  summoned  from  the  strings 
Aerial  spirits,  rare  yet  vibrant  wings 
That  fanned  the  pulses  of  his  listener, 

And  waked  each  sleeping  sense  with  blissful  stir. 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING. 


369 


Her  cheek  already  showed  a  slow  faint  blush, 

But  soon  the  voice,  in  pure  full  liquid  rush, 

Made  all  the  passion,  that  till  now  she  felt, 

Seem  but  cool  waters  that  in  warmer  melt. 

Finished  the  song,  she  prayed  to  be  alone 

With  kind  Minuccio ;  for  her  faith  had  grown 

To  trust  him  as  if  missioned  like  a  priest 

With  some  high  grace,  that  when  his  singing  ceased 

Still  made  him  wiser,  more  magnanimous 

Than  common  men  who  had  no  genius. 

So  laying  her  small  hand  within  his  palm, 

She  told  him  how  that  secret  glorious  harm 
Of  loftiest  loving  had  befallen  her ; 

That  death,  her  only  hope,  most  bitter  were, 

If  when  she  died  her  love  must  perish  too 
As  songs  unsung  and  thoughts  unspoken  do, 

Which  else  might  live  within  another  breast. 

She  said,  “Minuccio,  the  grave  were  rest, 

If  I  were  sure,  that  lying  cold  and  lone, 

My  love,  my  best  of  life,  had  safely  flown 
And  nestled  in  the  bosom  of  the  king ; 

See,  T  is  a  small  weak  bird,  with  unfledged  wing. 

But  you  will  carry  it  for  me  secretly, 

And  bear  it  to  the  king,  then  come  to  me 

And  tell  me  it  is  safe,  and  I  shall  go 

Content,  knowing  that  he  I  love  my  love  doth  know.* 

Then  she  wept  silently,  but  each  large  tear 
Made  pleading  music  to  the  inward  ear 
Of  good  Minuccio.  “  Lisa,  trust  in  me,” 

He  said,  and  kissed  her  fingers  loyally ; 

“  It  is  sweet  law  to  me  to  do  your  will, 

And  ere  the  sun  his  round  shall  thrice  fulfil, 

I  hope  to  bring  you  news  of  such  rare  skill 

24 


370 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


As  amulets  have,  that  aches  in  trusting  bosoms  still.” 

He  needed  not  to  pause  and  first  devise 
How  he  should  tell  the  king ;  for  in  nowise 
Were  such  love-message  worthily  bested 
Save  in  fine  verse  by  music  rendered. 

He  sought  a  poet-friend,  a  Siennese, 

And  u  Mico,  mine,”  he  said,  “  full  oft  to  please 
Thy  whim  of  sadness  I  have  sung  thee  strains 
To  make  thee  weep  in  verse  :  now  pay  my  pains, 

And  write  me  a  canzon  divinely  sad, 

Sinlessly  passionate  and  meekly  mad 
With  young  despair,  speaking  a  maiden’s  heart 
Of  fifteen  summers,  who  would  fain  depart 
From  ripening  life’s  new-urgent  mystery  — 

Love-choice  of  one  too  high  her  love  to  be  — 

But  cannot  yield  her  breath  till  she  has  poured 
Her  strength  away  in  this  hot-bleeding  word 
Telling  the  secret  of  her  soul  to  her  soul’s  lord.” 

Said  Mico,  “  Hay,  that  thought  is  poesy, 

I  need  but  listen  as  it  sings  to  me. 

Come  thou  again  to-morrow.”  The  third  day, 

When  linked  notes  had  perfected  the  lay, 

Minuccio  had  his  summons  to  the  court 
To  make,  as  he  was  wont,  the  moments  short 
Of  ceremonious  dinner  to  the  king. 

This  was  the  time  when  he  had  meant  to  bring 
Melodious  message  of  young  Lisa’s  love  : 

He  waited  till  the  air  had  ceased  to  move 
To  ringing  silver,  till  Falernian  wine 
Made  quickened  sense  with  quietude  combine, 

And  then  with  passionate  descant  made  each  ear  incline. 

Love ,  thou  didst  see  me ,  light  as  morning’s  breath , 
Roaming  a  garden  in  a  joyous  error , 

Laughing  at  chases  vain ,  a  happy  child , 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING. 

» 

Till  of  thy  countenance  t hs  alluring  terror  • 

In  majesty  from  out  the  blossoms  smiled , 

From  out  their  life  seeming  a  beauteous  Death . 

O  Love ,  who  so  didst  choose  me  for  thine  own, 
Taking  this  little  isle  to  tliy  great  sway} 

See  now,  it  is  the  honor  of  thy  throne 
That  what  thou  gavest  perish  not  away, 

Nor  leave  some  sweet  remembrance  to  atone 
By  life  that  will  be  for  the  brief  life  gone: 

Hear,  ere  the  shroud  o’er  these  frail  limbs  be  thrown 
Since  every  king  is  vassal  unto  thee, 

My  heart’s  lord  needs  must  listen  loyally  — 

Oh  tell  him  I  am  waiting  for  my  Death  ! 

Tell  him,  for  that  he  hath  such  royal  power 
T  were  hard  for  him  to  think  how  small  a  thing, 
How  slight  a  sign,  would  make  a  wealthy  dower 
For  one  like  me,  the  bride  of  that  pale  king 
Whose  bed  is  mine  at  some  swift-nearing  hour. 

Go  to  my  lord,  and  to  his  memory  bring 
That  happy  birthday  of  my  sorrowing 
When  his  large  glance  made  meaner  gazers  glad, 
Entering  the  bannered  lists  :  ’t was  then  Iliad 
The  wound  that  laid  me  in  the  arms  of  Death. 

Tell  him,  0  Love,  I  am  a  lowly  maid, 

No  more  than  any  little  knot  of  thyme 
That  he  with  careless  foot  may  often  tread; 

Yet  lowest  fragrance  oft  will  mount  sublime 
And  cleave  to  things  most  high  and  hallowed, 

As  doth  the  fragrance  of  my  life’s  springtime, 

My  lowly  love,  that  soaring  seeks  to  climb 
Within  his  thought ,  and  make  a  gentle  bliss, 

More  blissful  than  if  mine,  in  being  his  : 

So  shall  I  live  in  him  and  rest  in  Death. 


372 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


« 

The  strain  was  new.  It  seemed  a  pleading  cry, 

And  yet  a  rounded  perfect  melody, 

Making  grief  beauteous  as  the  tear-filled  eyes 
Of  little  child  at  little  miseries. 

Trembling  at  first,  then  swelling  as  it  rose, 

Like  rising  light  that  broad  and  broader  glows, 

It  filled  the  hall,  and  so  possessed  the  air 
That  not  one  breathing  soul  was  present  there, 
Though  dullest,  slowest,  but  was  quivering 
In  music’s  grasp,  and  forced  to  hear  her  sing. 

But  most  such  sweet  compulsion  took  the  mood 
Of  Pedro  (tired  of  doing  what  he  would). 

Whether  the  words  which  that  strange  meaning  bore 
Were  but  the  poet’s  feigning  or  aught  more, 

Was  bounden  question,  since  their  aim  must  be 
At  some  imagined  or  true  royalty. 

He  called  Minuccio  and  bade  him  tell 
What  poet  of  the  day  had  writ  so  well  ; 

For  though  they  came  behind  all  former  rhymes, 

The  verses  were  not  bad  for  these  poor  times. 

“  Monsignor,  they  are  only  three  days  old,” 

Minuccio  said ;  “  but  it  must  not  be  told 
How  this  song  grew,  save  to  your  royal  ear.” 

Eager,  the  king  withdrew  where  none  was  near, 

And  gave  close  audience  to  Minuccio, 

Who  meetly  told  that  love-tale  meet  to  know. 

The  king  had  features  pliant  to  confess 
The  presence  of  a  manly  tenderness  — 

Son,  father,  brother,  lover,  blent  in  one, 

In  fine  harmonic  exaltation  — 

The  spirit  of  religious  chivalry. 

He  listened,  and  Minuccio  could  see 
The  tender,  generous  admiration  spread 
O’er  all  his  face,  and  glorify  his  head 
With  royalty  that  would  have  kept  its  rank 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING . 


3T3 


Though  his  brocaded  robes  to  tatters  shrank. 

He  answered  without  pause,  “  So  sweet  a  maid, 

In  nature’s  own  insignia  arrayed, 

Though  she  were  come  of  unmixed  trading  blood 
That  sold  and  bartered  ever  since  the  Flood, 

Would  have  the  self-contained  and  single  worth 
Of  radiant  jewels  born  in  darksome  earth. 

Eaona  were  a  shame  to  Sicily, 

Letting  such  love  and  tears  unhonored  be : 

Hasten,  Minuccio,  tell  her  that  the  king 
To-day  will  surely  visit  her  when  vespers  ring.” 

Joyful,  Minuccio  bore  the  joyous  word, 

And  told  at  full,  while  none  but  Lisa  heard, 

How  each  thing  had  befallen,  sang  the  song, 

And  like  a  patient  nurse  who  would  prolong 
All  means  of  soothing,  dwelt  upon  each  tone, 

Each  look,  with  which  the  mighty  Aragon 
Marked  the  high  worth  his  royal  heart  assigned 
To  that  dear  place  he  held  in  Lisa’s  mind. 

She  listened  till  the  draughts  of  pure  content 
Through  all  her  limbs  like  some  new  being  went  — 
Life,  not  recovered,  but  untried  before, 

From  out  the  growing  world’s  unmeasured  store 
Of  fuller,  better,  more  divinely  mixed. 

’T  was  glad  reverse :  she  had  so  firmly  fixed 
To  die,  already  seemed  to  fall  a  veil 
Shrouding  the  inner  glow  from  light  of  senses  pale. 
Her  parents  wondering  see  her  half  arise  — 
Wondering,  rejoicing,  see  her  long  dark  eyes 
Brimful  with  clearness,  not  of  ’scaping  tears, 

But  of  some  light  ethereal  that  enspheres 
Their  orbs  with  calm,  some  vision  newly  learnt 
Where  strangest  fires  erewhile  had  blindly  burnt. 
She  asked  to  have  her  soft  white  robe  and  band 


374 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


And  coral  ornaments,  and  with  her  hand 

She  gave  her  locks’  dark  length  a  backward  fall, 

Then  looked  intently  in  a  mirror  small, 

And  feared  her  face  might  perhaps  displease  the  king; 

“  In  truth,’’  she  said,  “  I  am  a  tiny  thing ; 

I  was  too  bold  to  tell  what  could  such  visit  bring.” 
Meanwhile  the  king,  revolving  in  his  thought 
That  virgin  passion,  was  more  deeply  wrought 
To  chivalrous  pity ;  and  at  vesper  bell, 

With  careless  mien  which  hid  his  purpose  well, 

Went  forth  on  horseback,  and  as  if  by  chance 
Passing  Bernardo’s  house,  he  paused  to  glance 
At  the  line  garden  of  this  wealthy  man, 

This  Tuscan  trader  turned  Palermitan  : 

But,  presently  dismounting,  chose  to  walk 
Amid  the  trellises,  in  gracious  talk 
With  the  same  trader,  deigning  even  to  ask 
If  he  had  yet  fulfilled  the  father’s  task 
Of  marrying  that  daughter  whose  young  charms 
Himself,  betwixt  the  passages  of  arms, 

Noted  admiringly.  “  Monsignor,  no, 

She  is  not  married ;  that  were  little  woe, 

Since  she  has  counted  barely  fifteen  years ; 

But  all  such  hopes  of  late  have  turned  to  fears ; 

She  droops  and  fades ;  though  for  a  space  quite  brief  — 
Scarce  three  hours  past —  she  finds  some  strange  relief.” 
The  king  avised :  “  ’T  were  dole  to  all  of  us, 

The  world  should  lose  a  maid  so  beauteous ; 

Let  me  now  see  her ;  since  I  am  her  liege  lord, 

Her  spirits  must  wage  war  with  death  at  my  strong 
word.” 

In  such  half-serious  playfulness,  he  wends, 

With  Lisa’s  father  and  two  chosen  friends, 

Up  to  the  chamber  where  she  pillowed  sits 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING. 


375 


Watching  the  open  door,  that  now  admits 
A  presence  as  much  better  than  her  dreams, 

As  happiness  than  any  longing  seems. 

The  king  advanced,  and,  with  a  reverent  kiss 
Upon  her  hand,  said,  “  Lady,  wrhat  is  this  ? 

You,  whose  sweet  youth  should  others’  solace  be, 

Pierce  all  our  hearts,  languishing  piteously. 

We  pray  you,  for  the  love  of  us,  be  cheered, 

Nor  be  too  reckless  of  that  life,  endeared 
To  us  who  know  your  passing  worthiness, 

And  count  your  blooming  life  as  part  of  our  life’s  bliss.” 
Those  words,  that  touch  upon  her  hand  from  him 
Whom  her  soul  worshipped,  as  far  seraphim 
Worship  the  distant  glory,  brought  some  shame 
Quivering  upon  her  cheek,  yet  thrilled  her  frame 
With  such  deep  joy  she  seemed  in  paradise, 

In  wondering  gladness,  and  in  dumb  surprise 
That  bliss  could  be  so  blissful :  then  she  spoke  — 

“  Signor,  I  was  too  weak  to  bear  the  yoke, 

The  golden  yoke  of  thoughts  too  great  for  me ; 

That  was  the  ground  of  my  infirmity. 

But  now,  I  pray  your  grace  to  have  belief 

That  I  shall  soon  be  well,  nor  any  more  cause  grief.* 

The  king  alone  perceived  the  covert  sense 
Of  all  her  words,  which  made  one  evidence 
With  her  pure  voice  and  candid  loveliness, 

That  he  had  lost  much  honor,  honoring  less 
That  message  of  her  passionate  distress. 

He  stayed  beside  her  for  a  little  while 
With  gentle  looks  and  speech,  until  a  smile 
As  placid  as  a  ray  of  early  morn 
On  opening  flower-cups  o’er  her  lips  was  borne. 

When  he  had  left  her,  and  the  tidings  spread 
Through  all  the  town  how  he  had  visited 


376 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  Tuscan  trader’s  daughter,  who  was  sick, 

Men  said,  it  was  a  royal  deed  and  catholic. 

And  Lisa  ?  she  no  longer  wished  for  death  ; 

But  as  a  poet,  who  sweet  verses  saith 
Within  his  soul,  and  joys  in  music  there, 

Nor  seeks  another  heaven,  nor  can  bear 
Disturbing  pleasures,  so  was  she  content, 

Breathing  the  life  of  grateful  sentiment. 

She  thought  no  maid  betrothed  could  be  more  blest; 

For  treasure  must  be' valued  by  the  test 
Of  highest  excellence  and  rarity, 

And  her  dear  joy  was  best  as  best  could  be ; 

There  seemed  no  other  crown  to  her  delight 
Now  the  high  loved  one  saw  her  love  aright. 

Thus  her  soul  thriving  on  that  exquisite  mood, 

Spread  like  the  May -time  all  its  beauteous  good 
O’er  the  soft  bloom  of  neck,  and  arms,  and  cheek, 

And  strengthened  the  sweet  body,  once  so  weak, 

Until  she  rose  and  walked,  and,  like  a  bird 
With  sweetly  rippling  throat,  she  made  her  spring  joys 
heard. 

The  king,  when  he  the  happy  change  had  seen, 

Trusted  the  ear  of  Constance,  his  fair  queen, 

With  Lisa’s  innocent  secret,  and  conferred 
How  they  should  jointly,  by  their  deed  and  word, 

Honor  this  maiden’s  love,  which  like  the  prayer 
Of  loyal  hermits,  never  thought  to  share 
In  what  it  gave.  The  queen  had  that  chief  grace 
Of  womanhood,  a  heart  that  can  embrace 
All  goodness  in  another  woman’s  form ; 

And  that  same  day,  ere  the  sun  lay  too  warm 
On  southern  terraces,  a  messenger 
Informed  Bernardo  that  the  royal  pair 
Would  straightway  visit  him  and  celebrate 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING 


377 


Their  gladness  at  his  daughter’s  happier  state, 

W  hich  they  were  fain  to  see.  Soon  came  the  king 
On  horseback,  with  his  barons,  heralding 
The  advent  of  the  queen  in  courtly  state  ; 

And  all,  descending  at  the  garden  gate, 

Streamed  with  their  feathers,  velvet,  and  brocade, 
Through  the  pleached  alleys,  till  they,  pausing,  made 

A  lake  of  splendor  hnid  the  aloes  gray _ 

When,  meekly  facing  all  their  proud  array, 

The  white-robed  Lisa  with  her  parents  stood, 

As  some  white  dove  before  the  gorgeous  brood 
Of  dapple-breasted  birds  born  by  the  Colchian  flood 

The  king  and  queen,  by  gracious  looks  and  speech, 
Encourage  her,  and  thus  their  courtiers  teach 
How  this  fair  morning  they  may  courtliest  be 
By  making  Lisa  pass  it  happily. 

And  soon  the  ladies  and  the  barons  all 
Draw  her  by  turns,  as  at  a  festival 
Made  for  her  sake,  to  easy,  gay  discourse, 

And  compliment  with  looks  and  smiles  enforce  5 
A  joyous  hum  is  heard  the  gardens  round; 

Soon  there  is  Spanish  dancing  and  the  sound 
Of  minstrel’s  song,  and  autumn  fruits  are  pluckt : 

Till  mindfully  the  king  and  queen  conduct 
Lisa  apart  to  where  a  trellised  shade 

Made  pleasant  resting.  Then  King  Pedro  said _ 

“  Excellent  maiden,  that  rich  gift  of  love 
Your  heart  hath  made  us,  hath  a  worth  above 
All  royal  treasures,  nor  is  fitly  met 
Save  when  the  grateful  memory  of  deep  debt 
Lies  still  behind  the  outward  honors  done  : 

And  as  a  sign  that  110  oblivion 
Shall  overflood  that  faithful  memory, 

We  while  we  live  your  cavalier  will  be, 


378 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Nor  will  we  ever  arm  ourselves  for  fight, 

Whether  for  struggle  dire  or  brief  delight 
Of  warlike  feigning,  but  we  first  will  take 
The  colors  you  ordain,  and  for  your  sake 
Charge  the  more  bravely  where  your  emblem  is 
Nor  will  we  ever  claim  an  added  bliss 
To  our  sweet  thoughts  of  you  save  one  sole  kist 
But  there  still  rests  the  outward  honor  meet 
To  mark  your  worthiness,  and  we  entreat 
That  you  will  turn  your  ear  to  proffered  vows 
Of  one  who  loves  you,  and  would  be  your  spouse. 
We  must  not  wrong  yourself  and  Sicily 
By  letting  all  your  blooming  years  pass  by 
Unmated :  you  will  give  the  world  its  due 
From  beauteous  maiden  and  become  a  matron  true. 

Then  Lisa,  wrapt  in  virgin  wonderment 
At  her  ambitious  love’s  complete  content, 

Which  left  no  further  good  for  her  to  seek 
Than  love’s  obedience,  said  with  accent  meek  — 

“  Monsignor,  I  know  well  that  were  it  known 
To  all  the  world  how  high  my  love  had  flown, 
There  would  be  few  who  would  not  deem  me  mad. 
Or  say  my  mind  the  falsest  image  had 
Of  my  condition  and  your  lofty  place. 

But  hea7en  has  seen  that  for  no  moment’s  space 
Have  I  forgotten  you  to  be  the  king, 

Or  me  myself  to  be  a  lowly  thing  — 

A  little  lark,  enamored  of  the  sky, 

That  soared  to  sing,  to  break  its  breast,  and  die. 
But,  as  you  better  know  than  I,  the  heart 
In  choosing  chooseth  not  its  own  desert, 

But  that  great  merit  which  attracteth  it ; 

’T  is  law,  I  struggled,  but  I  must  submit, 

And  having  seen  a  worth  all  worth  above. 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  TIIE  KING. 


379 


I  loyed  you,  love  you,  and  shall  always  love. 

But  that  doth  mean,  my  will  is  ever  yours, 

Not  only  when  your  will  my  good  insures, 

But  if  it  wrought  me  what  the  world  calls  harm _ 

Fire,  wounds,  would  wear  from  your  dear  will  a  charm. 
That  you  will  be  my  knight  is  full  content, 

And  for  that  kiss  —  I  pray,  first  for  the  queen’s  consent/ 

Her  answer,  given  with  such  firm  gentleness, 

Pleased  the  queen  well,  and  made  her  hold  no  less 
Of  Lisa’s  merit  than  the  king  had  held. 

And  so,  all  cloudy  threats  of  grief  dispelled, 

There  was  betrothal  made  that  very  morn 
’Twixt  Perdicone,  youthful,  brave,  well-born, 

And  Lisa,  whom  he  loved ;  she  loving  well 
The  lot  that  from  obedience  befell. 

The  queen  a  rare  betrothal  ring  on  each 
Bestowed,  and  other  gems,  with  gracious  speectL 
And  that  no  joy  might  lack,  the  king,  who  knew 
The  youth  was  poor,  gave  him  rich  Ceffalu 
And  Cataletta,  large  and  fruitful  lands  — 

Adding  much  promise  when  he  joined  their  hands. 

At  last  he  said  to  Lisa,  with  an  air 

Gallant  yet  noble :  “Now  we  claim  our  share 

From  your  sweet  love,  a  share  which  is  not  small : 

For  in  the  sacrament  one  crumb  is  all/’ 

Then  taking  her  small  face  his  hands  between, 

He  kissed  her  on  the  brow  with  kiss  serene, 

Fit  seal  to  that  pure  vision  her  young  soul  had  seen, 

Sicilians  witnessed  that  King  Pedro  kept 
His  royal  promise  :  Perdicone  stept 
To  many  honors  honorably  won, 

Living  with  Lisa  in  true  union. 

Throughout  his  life  the  king  still  took  delight 


380 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


To  call  himself  fair  Lisa’s  faithful  knight; 

And  never  wore  in  field  or  tournament 
A  scarf  or  emblem  save  by  Lisa  sent. 

Such  deeds  made  subjects  loyal  in  that  land: 

They  joyed  that  one  so  worthy  to  command, 

So  chivalrous  and  gentle,  had  become 

The  king  of  Sicily,  and  filled  the  room 

Of  Frenchmen,  who  abused  the  Church’s  trust, 

Till,  in  a  righteous  vengeance  on  their  lust, 

Messina  rose,  with  God,  and  with  the  dagger’s  thrust. 

L’envoi. 

Reader,  this  story  'pleased  me  tony  ago 
In  the  bright  pages  of  Boccaccio , 

And  where  the  author  of  a  good  we  know, 

Let  us  not  fail  to  pay  the  grateful  thanks  we  ow& 


1869. 


A  MINOR  PROPHET. 


I  HAVE  a  friend,  a  vegetarian  seer, 

By  name  Elias  Baptist  Butterworth, 

A  harmless,  bland,  disinterested  man, 

V  hose  ancestors  in  Cromwell’s  day  believed 
The  Second  Advent  certain  in  five  years, 

But  when  King  Charles  the  Second  came  instead 
Revised  their  date  and  sought  another  world : 

I  mean  —  not  heaven  but  —  America. 

A  fervid  stock,  whose  generous  hope  embraced 
The  fortunes  of  mankind,  not  stopping  short 
At  rise  of  leather,  or  the  fall  of  gold, 

Nor  listening  to  the  voices  of  the  time 
As  housewives  listen  to  a  cackling  hen, 

With  wonder  whether  she  has  laid  her  egg 
On  their  own  nest-egg.  Still  they  did  insist 
Somewhat  too  wearisomely  on  the  joys 
Of  their  Millennium,  when  coats  and  hats 
Would  all  be  of  one  pattern,  books  and  song6 
All  fit  for  Sundays,  and  the  casual  talk 
As  good  as  sermons  preached  extempore. 

And  in  Elias  the  ancestral  zeal 
Breathes  strong  as  ever,  only  modified 
By  Transatlantic  air  and  modern  thought. 

You  could  not  pass  him  in  the  street  and  fail 
To  note  his  shoulders’  long  declivity, 

Beard  to  the  waist,  swan-neck,  and  large  pale  eyes,* 
Or,  when  lie  lifts  his  hat,  to  mark  his  hair 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Brushed  back  to  show  his  great  capacity  — 

A  full  grain’s  length  at  the  angle  of  the  brow 
Proving  him  witty,  while  the  shallower  men 
Only  seem  witty  in  their  repartees. 

Not  that  he ’s  vain,  but  that  his  doctrine  needs 
The  testimony  of  his  frontal  lobe. 

On  all  points  he  adopts  the  latest  views  ; 

Takes  for  the  key  of  universal  Mind 
The  “  levitation  ”  of  stout  gentlemen ; 

Believes  the  Eappings  are  not  spirits’  work, 

But  the  Thought-atmosphere’s,  a  stream  of  brains 
In  correlated  force  of  raps,  as  proved 
By  motion,  heat,  and  science  generally  ; 

The  spectrum,  for  example,  which  has  shown 
The  selfsame  metals  in  the  sun  as  here  ; 

So  the  Thought-atmosphere  is  everywhere  : 

High  truths  that  glimmered  under  other  names 
To  ancient  sages,  whence  good  scholarship 
Applied  to  Eleusinian  mysteries  — 

The  Vedas  —  Tripitaka  —  Vendidad  — 

Might  furnish  weaker  proof  for  weaker  minds 
That  Thought  was  rapping  in  the  hoary  past, 
And  might  have  edified  the  Greeks  by  raps 
At  the  greater  Dionysia,  if  their  ears 
Had  not  been  filled  with  Sophoclean  verse. 

And  when  all  Earth  is  vegetarian  — 

When,  lacking  butchers,  quadrupeds  die  out, 

And  less  Thought-atmosphere  is  reabsorbed 
By  nerves  of  insects  parasitical, 

Those  higher  truths,  seized  now  by  higher  minds 
But  not  expressed  (the  insects  hindering), 

Will  either  flash  out  into  eloquence, 

Or  better  still,  be  comprehensible 
By  rappings  simply,  without  need  of  roots. 


A  MINOR  PROPHET. 


383 


JT  is  on  this  theme  —  the  vegetarian  world  — 

That  good  Elias  willingly  expands  :  * 

He  loves  to  tell  in  mildly  nasal  tones 

And  vowels  stretched  to  suit  the  widest  views, 

The  future  fortunes  of  our  infant  Earth  — 

When  it  will  be  too  full  of  human  kind 
To  have  the  room  for  wilder  animals. 

Saith  he,  Sahara  will  be  populous 
With  families  of  gentlemen  retired 
From  commerce  in  more  Central  Africa, 

Who  order  coolness  as  we  order  coal, 

And  have  a  lobe  anterior  strong  enough 
To  think  away  the  sand-storms.  Science  thus 
Will  leave  no  spot  on  this  terraqueous  globe 
Unfit  to  be  inhabited  by  man, 

The  chief  of  animals  :  all  meaner  brutes 
Will  have  been  smoked  and  elbowed  out  of  life. 

No  lions  then  shall  lap  Caffrarian  pools, 

Or  shake  the  Atlas  with  their  midnight  roar : 

Even  the  slow,  slime-loving  crocodile, 

The  last  of  animals  to  take  a  hint, 

Will  then  retire  forever  from  a  scene 
Where  public  feeling  strongly  sets  against  him. 

Fishes  may  lead  carnivorous  lives  obscure, 

But  must  not  dream  of  culinary  rank 
Or  being  dished  in  good  society. 

Imagination  in  that  distant  age, 

Aiming  at  fiction  called  historical, 

Will  vainly  try  to  reconstruct  the  times 
When  it  was  men’s  preposterous  delight 
To  sit  astride  live  horses,  which  consumed 
Materials  for  incalculable  cakes  ; 

When  there  were  milkmaids  who  drew  milk  from  cowli 
With  udders  kept  abnormal  for  that  end 
Since  the  rude  mythopoeic  period 


384 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Of  Aryan  dairymen,  who  did  not  blush 

To  call  their  milkmaid  and  their  daughter  one— 

Helplessly  gazing  at  the  Milky  Way, 

Nor  dreaming  of  the  astral  cocoa-nuts 
Quite  at  the  service  of  posterity. 

’T  is  to  be  feared,  though,  that  the  duller  boys, 
Much  given  to  anachronisms  and  nuts 
(Elias  has  confessed  boys  will  be  boys), 

May  write  a  jockey  for  a  centaur,  think 
Europa’s  suitor  was  an  Irish  bull, 
iEsop  a  journalist  who  wrote  up  Eox, 

And  Bruin  a  chief  swindler  upon  ’Change. 

Boys  will  be  boys,  but  dogs  will  all  be  moral. 
With  longer  alimentary  canals 
Suited  to  diet  vegetarian. 

The  uglier  breeds  will  fade  from  memory, 

Or,  being  palaeontological, 

Live  but  as  portraits  in  large  learned  books, 
Distasteful  to  the  feelings  of  an  age 
Nourished  on  purest  beauty.  Earth  will  hold 
No  stupid  brutes,  no  cheerful  queernesses, 

No  naive  cunning,  grave  absurdity. 

Wart-pigs  with  tender  and  parental  grunts, 
Wombats  much  flattened  as  to  their  contour, 
Perhaps  from  too  much  crushing  in  the  ark, 

But  taking  meekly  that  fatality ; 

The  serious  cranes,  unstung  by  ridicule ; 
Long-headed,  short-legged,  solemn-looking  curs, 
(Wise,  silent  critics  of  a  flippant  age) ; 

Phe  silly  straddling  foals,  the  weak-brained  gees® 
Hissing  fallaciously  at  sound  of  wheels  — 

Ml  these  rude  products  will  have  disappeared 
Along  with  every  faulty  human  type. 

By  dint  of  diet  vegetarian 

411  will  be  harmony  of  hue  and  line, 


A  MINOR  PROPHET. 


385 


Bodies  and  minds  all  perfect,  limbs  well-turned, 

And  talk  quite  free  from  aught  erroneous. 

Thus  far  Elias  in  his  seer’s  mantle : 

But  at  this  climax  in  his  prophecy 
My  sinking  spirits,  fearing  to  be  swamped, 

Urge  me  to  speak.  “  High  prospects  these,  my  friend, 
Setting  the  weak  carnivorous  brain  astretch ; 

We  will  resume  the  thread  another  day.” 

“  To-morrow,”  cries  Elias,  “  at  this  hour  ?  ” 

“  No,  not  to-morrow  —  I  shall  have  a  cold  — 

At  least  I  feel  some  soreness  —  this  endemic  — 
Good-by.” 


No  tears  are  sadder  than  the  smile 
With  which  I  quit  Elias.  Bitterly 
I  feel  that  every  change  upon  this  earth 
Is  bought  with  sacrifice.  My  yearnings  fail 
To  reach  that  high  apocalyptic  mount 
Which  shows  in  bird’s-eye  view  a  perfect  world, 

Or  enter  warmly  into  other  joys 

Than  those  of  faulty,  struggling  human  kind. 

That  strain  upon  my  soul’s  too  feeble  wing 
Ends  in  ignoble  floundering :  I  fall 
Into  short-sighted  pity  for  the  men 
Who  living  in  those  perfect  future  times 
Will  not  know  half  the  dear  imperfect  things 
That  move  my  smiles  and  tears  —  will  never  know 
The  fine  old  incongruities  that  raise 
My  friendly  laugh ;  the  innocent  conceits 
That  like  a  needless  eyeglass  or  black  patch 
Give  those  who  wear  them  harmless  happiness ; 
lhie  twists  and  cracks  in  our  poor  earthenware, 
That  touch  me  to  more  conscious  fellowship 
<  1  am  not  myself  the  finest  Parian  ^ 

25 


386 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT* 


With  my  coevals.  So  poor  Colin  Clout, 

To  whom  raw  onion  gives  prospective  zest, 

Consoling  hours  of  dampest  wintry  work, 

Could  hardly  fancy  any  regal  joys 

Quite  unimpregnate  with  the  onion’s  scent : 

Perhaps  his  highest  hopes  are  not  all  clear 
Of  waitings  from  that  energetic  bulb : 

?T  is  well  that  onion  is  not  heresy. 

Speaking  in  parable,  I  am  Colin  Clout. 

A  clinging  flavor  penetrates  my  life  — 

My  onion  is  imperfectness  :  I  cleave 
To  nature’s  blunders,  evanescent  types 
Which  sages  banish  from  Utopia. 

“  Not  worship  beauty  ?  v  say  you.  Patience,  friend ! 
I  worship  in  the  temple  with  the  rest ; 

But  by  my  hearth  I  keep  a  sacred  nook 

For  gnomes  and  dwarfs,  duck-footed  waddling  elves 

Who  stitched  and  hammered  for  the  weary  man 

In  days  of  old.  And  in  that  piety 

I  clothe  ungainly  forms  inherited 

From  toiling  generations,  daily  bent 

At  desk,  or  plough,  or  loom,  or  in  the  mine, 

In  pioneering  labors  for  the  world. 

Nay,  I  am  apt  when  floundering  confused 
From  too  rash  flight,  to  grasp  at  paradox, 

And  pity  future  men  who  will  not  know 
A  keen  experience  with  pity  blent, 

The  pathos  exquisite  of  lovely  minds 
Hid  in  harsh  forms  —  not  penetrating  them 
Like  fire  divine  within  a  common  bush 
Which  glows  transfigured  by  the  heavenly  guest, 

So  that  men  put  their  shoes  off ;  but  encaged 
Like  a  sweet  child  within  some  thick-walled  cell, 
Who  leaps  and  fails  to  hold  the  window-bars, 

But  having  shown  a  little  dimpled  hand 


A  MINOR  PROPHET. 


887 


Is  visited  thenceforth  by  tender  hearts 
Whose  eyes  keep  watch  about  the  prison  walls. 

A  foolish,  nay,  a  wicked  paradox ! 

For  purest  pity  is  the  eye  of  love 
Melting  at  sight  of  sorrow ;  and  to  grieve 
Because  it  sees  no  sorrow,  shows  a  love 
Warped  from  its  truer  nature,  turned  to  love 
Of  merest  habit,  like  the  miser’s  greed. 

But  I  am  Colin  still :  my  prejudice 
Is  for  the  flavor  of  my  daily  food. 

Not  that  I  doubt  the  world  is  growing  still 
As  once  it  grew  from  Chaos  and  from  Night  5 
Or  have  a  soul  too  shrunken  for  the  hope 
Which  dawned  in  human  breasts,  a  double  morn, 
With  earliest  watchings  of  the  rising  light 
Chasing  the  darkness ;  and  through  many  an  age 
Has  raised  the  vision  of  a  future  time 
That  stands  an  Angel  with  a  face  all  mild 
Spearing  the  demon.  I  too  rest  in  faith 
That  man’s  perfection  is  the  crowning  flower, 
Toward  which  the  urgent  sap  in  life’s  great  tree 
Is  pressing  —  seen  in  puny  blossoms  now, 

But  in  the  world’s  great  morrows  to  expand 
With  broadest  petal  and  with  deepest  glow. 

Yet,  see  the  patched  and  plodding  citizen 
Waiting  upon  the  pavement  with  the  throng 
While  some  victorious  world-hero  makes 
Triumphal  entry,  and  the  peal  of  shouts 
And  flash  of  faces  ’neath  uplifted  hats 
Run  like  a  storm  of  joy  along  the  streets  ! 

He  says,  “  God  bless  him  !  ”  almost  with  a  sob, 

As  the  great  hero  passes ;  he  is  glad 

The  world  holds  mighty  men  and  mighty  deeds  ; 

The  music  stirs  his  pulses  like  strong  wine, 


388 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


The  moving  splendor  touches  him  with  awe  — 

’T  is  glory  shed  around  the  common  weal, 

And  he  will  pay  his  tribute  willingly, 

Though  with  the  pennies  earned  by  sordid  toil. 
Perhaps  the  hero’s  deeds  have  helped  to  bring 
A  time  when  every  honest  citizen 
Shall  wear  a  coat  unpatched.  And  yet  he  feels 
More  easy  fellowship  with  neighbors  there 
Who  look  on  too ;  and  he  will  soon  relajjse 
From  noticing  the  banners  and  the  steeds 
To  think  with  pleasure  there  is  just  one  bun 
Left  in  his  pocket,  that  may  serve  to  tempt 
The  wide-eyed  lad,  whose  weight  is  all  too  much 
For  that  young  mother’s  arms  :  and  then  he  falls 
To  dreamy  picturing  of  sunny  days 
When  he  himself  was  a  small  big-cheeked  lad 
In  some  far  village  where  no  heroes  came, 

And  stood  a  listener  ’twixt  his  father’s  legs 
In  the  warm  firelight,  while  the  old  folk  talked 
And  shook  their  heads  and  looked  upon  the  floor ; 
And  he  was  puzzled,  thinking  life  was  fine  — 

The  bread  and  cheese  so  nice  all  through  the  year 
And  Christmas  sure  to  come.  Oh  that  good  time ! 
He,  could  he  choose,  would  have  those  days  again 
And  see  the  dear  old-fashioned  things  once  more. 
But  soon  the  wheels  and  drums  have  all  passed  by 
And  tramping  feet  are  heard  like  sudden  rain : 

The  quiet  startles  our  good  citizen ; 

He  feels  the  child  upon  his  arms,  and  knows 
He  is  with  the  people  making  holiday 
Because  of  hopes  for  better  days  to  come. 

But  Hope  to  him  was  like  the  brilliant  west 
Telling  of  sunrise  in  a  world  unknown, 

And  from  that  dazzling  curtain  of  bright  hues 
He  turned  to  the  familiar  face  of  fields 


A  MINOR  PROPHET. 


889 


Lying  all  clear  in  the  calm  morning  land. 

Maybe ’t  is  wiser  not  to  fix  a  lens 
Too  scrutinizing  on  the  glorious  times 
When  Barbarossa  shall  arise  and  shake 
His  mountain,  good  King  Arthur  come  again, 

And  all  the  heroes  of  such  giant  soul 
That,  living  once  to  cheer  mankind  with  hope, 
They  had  to  sleep  until  the  time  was  ripe 
For  greater  deeds  to  match  their  greater  thought. 
Yet  no  !  the  earth  yields  nothing  more  Divine 
Than  high  prophetic  vision  —  than  the  Seer 
Who  fasting  from  man’s  meaner  joy  beholds 
The  paths  of  beauteous  order,  and  constructs 
A  fairer  type,  to  shame  our  low  content. 

But  prophecy  is  like  potential  sound 
Which  turned  to  music  seems  a  voice  sublime 
From  out  the  soul  of  light ;  but  turns  to  noise 
In  scrannel  pipes,  and  makes  all  ears  averse . 

The  faith  that  life  on  earth  is  being  shaped 
To  glorious  ends,  that  order,  justice,  love, 

Mean  man’s  completeness,  mean  effect  as  sure 
As  roundness  in  the  dew-drop  —  that  great  faith 
Is  but  the  rushing  and  expanding  stream 
Of  thought,  of  feeling,  fed  by  all  the  past. 

Our  finest  hope  is  finest  memory, 

As  they  who  love  in  age  think  youth  is  blest 
Because  it  has  a  life  to  fill  with  love. 

Full  souls  are  double  mirrors,  making  still 
An  endless  vista  of  fair  things  before 
Repeating  things  behind :  so  faitli  is  strong 
Only  when  we  are  strong,  shrinks  when  we  shrink 
It  comes  when  music  stirs  us,  and  the  chords 
Moving  on  some  grand  climax  shake  our  souls 
With  influx  new  that  makes  new  energies 


390 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


It  comes  in  swellings  of  the  heart  and  tears 
That  rise  at  noble  and  at  gentle  deeds  — 

At  labors  of  the  master-artist’s  hand 
Which,  trembling,  touches  to  a  finer  end, 
Trembling  before  an  image  seen  within. 

It  comes  in  moments  of  heroic  love, 

Un jealous  joy  in  joy  not  made  for  us  — 

In  conscious  triumph  of  the  good  within 
Making  us  worship  goodness  that  rebukes. 

Even  our  failures  are  a  prophecy. 

Even  our  yearnings  and  our  bitter  tears 
After  that  fair  and  true  we  cannot  grasp ; 

As  patriots  who  seem  to  die  in  vain 
Make  liberty  more  sacred  by  their  pangs. 

Presentiment  of  better  things  on  earth 
Sweeps  in  with  every  force  that  stirs  our  souls 
To  admiration,  self-renouncing  love, 

Or  thoughts,  like  light,  that  bind  the  world  in  one 
Sweeps  like  the  sense  of  vastness,  when  at  night 
We  hear  the  roll  and  dash  of  waves  that  break 
Nearer  and  nearer  with  the  rushing  tide, 

Which  rises  to  the  level  of  the  cliff 
Because  the  wide  Atlantic  rolls  behind, 

Throbbing  respondent  to  the  far-off  orbs. 


186& 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER 


i. 

I  CANNOT  choose  but  think  upon  the  time 

When  our  two  lives  grew  like  two  buds  that  kiss 
At  lightest  thrill  from  the  bee’s  swinging  chime, 
Because  the  one  so  near  the  other  is. 

He  was  the  elder  and  a  little  man 
Of  forty  inches,  bound  to  show  no  dread, 

And  I  the  girl  that  puppy-like  now  ran, 

Now  lagged  behind  my  brother’s  larger  tread. 

I  held  him  wise,  and  when  he  talked  to  me 
Of  snakes  and  birds,  and  which  God  loved  the  best, 

I  thought  his  knowledge  marked  the  boundary 
Where  men  grew  blind,  though  angels  knew  the  rest. 

If  he  said  “  Hush  !  ”  I  tried  to  hold  my  breath ; 
Wherever  he  said  “  Come  !  ”  I  stepped  in  faith. 


n. 

Long  years  have  left  their  writing  on  my  brow, 
But  yet  the  freshness  and  the  dew-fed  beam 
Of  those  young  mornings  are  about  me  now, 
When  we  two  wandered  toward  the  far-off  stream 

With  rod  and  line.  Our  basket  held  a  store 
Baked  for  us  only,  and  I  thought  with  joy 


392 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


That  I  should  have  my  share,  though  he  had  more, 
Because  he  was  the  elder  and  a  boy. 

The  firmaments  of  daisies  since  to  me 
Have  had  those  mornings  in  their  opening  eyes, 
The  bunched  cowslip’s  pale  transparency 
Carries  that  sunshine  of  sweet  memories, 

And  wild-rose  branches  take  their  finest  scent 
From  those  blest  hours  of  infantine  content. 

hi. 

Our  mother  bade  us  keep  the  trodden  ways, 
Stroked  down  my  tippet,  set  my  brother’s  frill, 
Then  with  the  benediction  of  her  gaze 
Clung  to  us  lessening,  and  pursued  us  still 

Across  the  homestead  to  the  rookery  elms, 

Whose  tall  old  trunks  had  each  a  grassy  mound, 

So  rich  for  us,  we  counted  them  as  realms 
With  varied  products :  here  were  earth-nuts  found, 

And  here  the  Lady-fingers  in  deep  shade ; 

Here  sloping  toward  the  Moat  the  rushes  grew, 
The  large  to  split  for  pith,  the  small  to  braid ; 
While  over  all  the  dark  rooks  cawing  flew, 

And  made  a  happy  strange  solemnity, 

A  deep-toned  chant  from  life  unknown  to  me. 

IV. 

Our  meadow-path  had  memorable  spots : 

One  where  it  bridged  a  tiny  rivulet, 

Deep  hid  by  tangled  blue  Forget-me-nots ; 

And  all  along  the  waving  grasses  met 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


393 


My  little  palm,  or  noddea  60  my  cheek, 

Alien  flowers  with  upturned  faces  gazing  drew 
My  wonder  downward,  seeming  all  to  speak 
With  eyes  of  souls  that  dumbly  heard  and  knew. 

Then  came  the  copse,  where  wild  things  rushed  unseen, 
And  black-scathed  grass  betrayed  the  past  abode 
Of  mystic  gypsies,  who  still  lurked  between 
Me  and  each  hidden  distance  of  the  road. 

A  gypsy  once  had  startled  me  at  play, 

Blotting  with  her  dark  smile  my  sunny  day. 


v. 

Thus  rambling  we  were  schooled  in  deepest  lore, 
And  learned  the  meanings  that  give  words  a  soul, 
The  fear,  the  love,  the  primal  passionate  store, 
Whose  shaping  impulses  make  manhood  whole. 

Those  hours  were  seed  to  all  my  after  good ; 

My  infant  gladness,  through  eye,  ear,  and  touch, 
Took  easily  as  warmth  a  various  food 
To  nourish  the  sweet  skill  of  loving  much. 

For  who  in  age  shall  roam  the  earth  and  find 
Reasons  for  loving  that  will  strike  out  love 
With  sudden  rod  from  the  hard  year-pressed  mind  ? 
Were  reasons  sown  as  thick  as  stars  above, 

’T  is  love  must  see  them,  as  the  eyes  see  light: 
Day  is  but  Number  to  the  darkened  sight. 


VI. 

Our  brown  canal  was  endless  to  my  thought ; 
And  on  its  banks  I  sat  in  dreamy  peace, 


394 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Unknowing  how  the  good  I  loved  was  wrought 
Untroubled  by  the  fear  that  it  would  cease. 

Slowly  the  barges  floated  into  view, 

Rounding  a  grassy  hill  to  me  sublime 

With  some  Unknown  beyond  it,  whither  flew 

The  parting  cuckoo  toward  a  fresh  spring-time. 

The  wide-arched  bridge,  the  scented  elder-flowers, 
The  wondrous  watery  rings  that  died  too  soon, 

The  echoes  of  the  quarry,  the  still  ] lours 
With  white  robe  sweeping  on  the  shadeless  noon, 

Were  but  my  growing  self,  are  part  of  me, 

My  present  Past,  my  root  of  piety. 

VII. 

Those  long  days  measured  by  my  little  feet  • 

Had  chronicles  which  yield  me  many  a  text ; 
Where  irony  still  finds  an  image  meet 
Of  full-grown  judgments  in  this  world  perplext. 

One  day  my  brother  left  me  in  high  charge, 

To  mind  the  rod,  while  he  went  seeking  bait, 

And  bade  me,  when  I  saw  a  nearing  barge, 

Snatch  out  the  line,  lest  he  should  come  too  late. 

Proud  of  the  task,  I  watched  with  all  my  might 
For  one  whole  minute,  till  my  eyes  grew  wide, 

Till  sky  and  earth  took  on  a  strange  new  light 
And  seemed  a  dream-world  floating  on  some  tide  — 

A  fair  pavilioned  boat  for  me  alone 
Bearing  me  onward  through  the  vast  unknown. 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


395 


VIII. 

But  sudden  came  the  barge’s  pitch-black  prow, 
Nearer  and  angrier  came  my  brother’s  cry, 

And  all  my  soul  was  quivering  fear,  when  lo ! 
Upon  the  imperilled  line,  suspended  high, 

A  silver  perch  !  My  guilt  that  won  the  prey, 
Now  turned  to  merit,  had  a  guerdon  rich 
Of  hugs  and  praises,  and  made  merry  play, 
Until  my  triumph  reached  its  highest  pitch 

When  all  at  home  were  told  the  wondrous  feat, 
And  how  the  little  sister  had  fished  well. 

In  secret,  though  my  fortune  tasted  sweet, 

I  wondered  why  this  happiness  befell. 

u  The  little  lass  had  luck,”  the  gardener  said : 
And  so  I  learned,  luck  was  with  glory  wed. 


IX. 

We  had  the  selfsame  world  enlarged  for  each 
By  loving  difference  of  girl  and  boy : 

The  fruit  that  hung  on  high  beyond  my  reach 
He  plucked  for  me,  and  oft  he  must  employ 

A  measuring  glance  to  guide  my  tiny  shoe 
Where  lay  firm  stepping-stones,  or  call  to  mind 
a  This  thing  I  like  my  sister  may  not  do, 

For  she  is  little,  and  I  must  be  kind.” 

Thus  boyish  Will  the  nobler  mastery  learned 
Where  inward  vision  over  impulse  reigns, 
Widening  its  life  with  separate  life  discerned, 
A  Like  unlike,  a  Self  that  self  restrains. 


396 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


His  vears  with  others  must  the  sweeter  be 
For  those  brief  days  he  spent  in  loving  me. 


x. 

His  sorrow  was  my  sorrow,  and  his  joy 

Sent  little  leaps  and  laughs  through  all  my  frame  ; 

My  doll  seemed  lifeless  and  no  girlish  toy 
Had  any  reason  when  my  brother  came. 

I  knelt  with  him  at  marbles,  marked  his  fling 
Cut  the  ringed  stem  and  make  the  apple  drop, 

Or  watched  him  winding  close  the  spiral  string 
That  looped  the  orbits  of  the  humming  top. 

Grasped  by  such  fellowship  my  vagrant  thought 
Ceased  with  dream-fruit  dream-wishes  to  fulfil  j 
My  aery-picturing  fantasy  was  taught 
Subjection  to  the  harder,  truer  skill 

That  seeks  with  deeds  to  grave  a  thought-tracked  line, 
And  by  “  What  is,”  “  What  will  be”  to  define. 


XI. 

School  parted  us ;  we  never  found  again 
That  childish  world  where  our  two  spirits  mingled 
Like  scents  from  varying  roses  that  remain 
One  sweetness,  nor  can  evermore  be  singled- 

Fet  the  twin  habit  of  that  early  time 
Lingered  for  long  about  the  heart  and  tongue : 

We  had  been  natives  of  one  happy  clime, 

And  its  dear  accent  to  our  utterance  clung, 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER.  397 

Till  the  dire  years  whose  awful  name  is  Change 
Had  grasped  our  souls  still  yearning  in  divorce, 

And  pitiless  shajDed  them  in  two  forms  that  range 
Two  elements  which  sever  their  life’s  course. 

But  were  another  childhood-world  my  share, 

I  would  be  born  a  little  sister  there. 


1869 


STRADIVARIUS. 


YOUR  soul  was  lifted  by  the  wings  to-day 
Hearing  the  master  of  the  violin  : 

You  praised  him,  praised  the  great  Sebastian  too 

Who  made  that  fine  Chaconne  ;  but  did  you  think 

Of  old  Antonio  Stradivari  ?  —  him 

Who  a  good  century  and  half  ago 

Put  his  true  work  in  that  brown  instrument 

^.nd  by  the  nice  adjustment  of  its  frame 

Gave  it  responsive  life,  continuous 

With  the  master’s  finger-tips  and  perfected 

Like  them  by  delicate  rectitude  of  use. 

Not  Bach  alone,  helped  by  fine  precedent 
Of  genius  gone  before,  nor  Joachim 
Who  holds  the  strain  afresh  incorporate 
By  inward  hearing  and  notation  strict 
Of  nerve  and  muscle,  made  our  joy  to-day: 
Another  soul  was  living  in  the  air 
And  swaying  it  to  true  deliverance 
Of  high  invention  and  responsive  skill : 

That  plain  white-aproned  man  who  stood  at  work 
Patient  and  accurate  full  fourscore  years, 
Cherished  his  sight  and  touch  by  temperance, 

And  since  keen  sense  is  love  of  perfectness 
Made  perfect  violins,  the  needed  paths 
For  inspiration  and  high  mastery. 

No  simpler  man  than  he  :  he  never  cried, 

“  Why  was  I  born  to  this  monotonous  task 


STRADIVARIUS. 


899 


Of  making  violins  ?  ”  or  flung  them  down 
To  suit  with  hurling  act  a  well-hurled  curse 
At  labor  on  such  perishable  stuff. 

Hence  neighbors  in  Cremona  held  him  dull, 

Called  him  a  slave,  a  mill-horse,  a  machine, 

Begged  him  to  tell  his  motives  or  to  lend 
A  few  gold  pieces  to  a  loftier  mind. 

Yet  he  had  pithy  words  full  fed  by  fact ; 

For  Fact,  well-trusted,  reasons  and  persuades, 

Is  gnomic,  cutting,  or  ironical, 

Draws  tears,  or  is  a  tocsin  to  arouse  — - 

Can  hold  all  figures  of  the  orator 

In  one  plain  sentence ;  has  her  pauses  too  — 

Eloquent  silence  at  the  chasm  abrupt 

Where  knowledge  ceases.  Thus  Antonio 

Made  answers  as  Fact  willed,  and  made  them  strong, 

Naldo,  a  painter  of  eclectic  school, 

Taking  his  dicers,  candlelight  and  grins 
From  Caravaggio,  and  in  holier  groups 
Combining  Flemish  flesh  with  martyrdom  — 
Knowing  all  tricks  of  style  at  thirty-one, 

And  weary  of  them,  while  Antonio 
At  sixty-nine  wrought  placidly  his  best, 

Making  the  violin  you  heard  to-day  — 

Naldo  would  tease  him  oft  to  tell  his  aims. 

“  Perhaps  thou  hast  some  pleasant  vice  to  feed  — . 
The  love  of  louis  d’ors  in  heaps  of  four, 

Each  violin  a  heap  —  I  Ve  naught  to  blame  ; 

My  vices  waste  such  heaps.  But  then,  why  work 
With  painful  nicety  ?  Since  fame  once  earned 
By  luck  or  merit  —  oftenest  by  luck  — 

(Else  why  do  I  put  Bonifazio’s  name 
To  work  that  1  pinxit  Naldo ?  would  not  sell  ?) 

Is  welcome  index  to  the  wealthy  mob 


400 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Where  they  should  pay  their  gold,  and  where  they  pay 
There  they  find  merit  —  take  your  tow  for  flax, 

And  hold  the  flax  unlabelled  with  your  name, 
loo  coarse  for  sufferance.” 

Antonio  then : 

“  I  like  the  gold  —  well,  yes  —  but  not  for  meals. 

And  as  my  stomach,  so  my  eye  and  hand, 

And  inward  sense  that  works  along  with  both, 

Have  hunger  that  can  never  feed  on  coin. 

Who  draws  a  line  and  satisfies  his  soul, 

Making  it  crooked  where  it  should  be  straight  ? 

An  idiot  with  an  oyster-shell  may  draw 
His  lines  along  the  sand,  all  wavering, 

Fixing  no  point  or  pathway  to  a  point ; 

An  idiot  one  remove  may  choose  his  line, 

Straggle  and  be  content ;  but  God  be  praised, 

Antonio  Stradivari  has  an  eye 

That  winces  at  false  work  and  loves  the  true, 

With  hand  and  arm  that  play  upon  the  tool 

As  willingly  as  any  singing  bird 

Sets  him  to  sing  his  morning  roundelay, 

Because  he  likes  to  sing  and  likes  the  song. 

Then  Hal  do  :  “  ’T  is  a  petty  kind  of  fame 
At  best,  that  comes  of  making  violins  ; 

And  saves  no  masses,  either.  Thou  wilt  gc 
To  purgatory  none  the  less.” 

But  he : 

“  ?T  were  purgatory  here  to  make  them  ill ; 

And  for  my  fame  —  when  any  master  holds 
’Twixt  chin  and  hand  a  violin  of  mine, 

He  will  be  glad  that  Stradivari  lived, 

Made  violins,  and  made  them  of  the  best. 

The  masters  only  know  whose  work  is  good : 

They  will  choose  mine,  and  while  God  gives  them  skill 


STRADIVARIUS. 


101 


I  give  them  instruments  to  play  upon, 
God  choosing  me  to  help  Him.” 


“  What !  were  God 
At  fault  for  violins,  thou  absent  ?  ” 

“  Yes ; 

He  were  at  fault  for  Stradivari’s  work.” 

a  Why,  many  hold  Giuseppe’s  violins 
As  good  as  thine.” 

“  May  be  :  they  are  different. 

His  quality  declines :  he  spoils  his  hand 
With  over-drinking.  But  were  his  the  best, 

He  could  not  work  for  two.  My  work  is  mine, 

And,  heresy  or  not,  if  my  hand  slacked 
I  should  rob  God  —  since  He  is  fullest  good  — 
Leaving  a  blank  instead  of  violins. 

I  say,  not  God  Himself  can  make  man’s  best 
Without  best  men  to  help  Him.  I  am  one  best 
Here  in  Cremona,  using  sunlight  well 
To  fashion  finest  maple  till  it  serves 
More  cunningly  than  throats,  for  harmony. 

’T  is  rare  delight :  I  would  not  change  my  skill 
To  be  the  Emperor  with  bungling  hands, 

And  lose  my  work,  which  comes  as  natural 
As  self  at  waking.” 

“  Thou  art  little  more 
Than  a  deft  potter’s  wheel,  Antonio  ; 

Turning  out  work  by  mere  necessity 
And  lack  of  varied  function.  Higher  arts 
Subsist  on  freedom  —  eccentricity  — 

Uncounted  inspirations  —  influence 

That  comes  with  drinking,  gambling,  talk  turned  wild. 

Then  moody  misery  and  lack,  of  food  — 

With  every  ditliyrambic  fine  excess  : 


402 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELTOT. 


These  make  at  last  a  storm  which  flashes  out 
In  lightning  revelations.  Steady  work 
Turns  genius  to  a  loom ;  the  soul  must  lie 
Like  grapes  beneath  the  sun  till  ripeness  comes 
And  mellow  vintage.  I  could  paint  you  now 
The  finest  Crucifixion  ;  yesternight 
Returning  home  I  saw  it  on  a  sky 
Blue-black,  thick-starred.  I  want  two  louis  Tors 
To  buy  the  canvas  and  the  costly  blues  — 

Trust  me  a  fortnight.” 

“  Where  are  those  last  two 
I  lent  thee  for  thy  Judith  ?  —  her  thou  saw’st 
In  saffron  gown,  with  Holof ernes’  head 
And  beauty  all  complete  ?  ” 

“  She  is  but  sketched : 
I  lack  the  proper  model  —  and  the  mood. 

A  great  idea  is  an  eagle’s  egg, 

Craves  time  for  hatching ;  while  the  eagle  sits, 
Feed  her.” 

“  If  thou  wilt  call  thy  pictures  eggs 
I  call  the  hatching,  Work.  ’T  is  God  gives  skill, 
But  not  without  men’s  hands  :  He  could  not  make 
Antonio  Stradivari’s  violins 
Without  Antonio.  Get  thee  to  thy  easel.” 


1878. 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY. 


YOUNG  Hamlet,  not  the  hesitating  Dane, 

But  one  named  after  him,  who  lately  strove 
For  honors  at  our  English  Wittenberg  — 

Blond,  metaphysical,  and  sensuous, 

Questioning  all  things  and  yet  half  convinced 
Credulity  were  better ;  held  inert 
’Twixt  fascinations  of  all  opposites, 

And  half  suspecting  that  the  mightiest  soul 
(Perhaps  his  own  ?)  was  union  of  extremes, 
Having  no  choice  but  choice  of  everything ; 

As,  drinking  deep  to-day  for  love  of  wine, 
To-morrow  half  a  Brahmin,  scorning  life 
As  mere  illusion,  yearning  for  that  True 
Which  has  no  qualities  ;  another  day 
Finding  the  fount  of  grace  in  sacraments, 

And  purest  reflex  of  the  light  divine 
In  gem-bossed  pyx  and  broidered  chasuble, 
Resolved  to  wear  no  stockings  and  to  fast 
With  arms  extended,  waiting  ecstasy ; 

But  getting  cramps  instead,  and  needing  change, 

A  would-be  pagan  next : 

Young  Hamlet  sat 

A  guest  with  five  of  somewhat  riper  age 
At  breakfast  with  Horatio,  a  friend 
With  few  opinions,  but  of  faithful  heart, 

Quick  to  detect  the  fibrous  spreading  roots 
Of  character  that  feed  men’s  theories, 

Yet  cloaking  weaknesses  with  charity 


404 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


And  ready  in  all  service  save  rebuke. 

With  ebb  of  breakfast  and  the  cider-cup 
Came  high  debate  :  the  others  seated  there 
Were  Osric,  spinner  of  line  sentences, 

A  delicate  insect  creeping  over  life 
Feeding  on  molecules  of  floral  breath, 

And  weaving  gossamer  to  trap  the  sun ; 

Laertes,  ardent,  rash,  and  radical ; 

Discursive  Rosencranz,  grave  Guildenstern, 

And  he  for  whom  the  social  meal  was  made  — 

The  polished  priest,  a  tolerant  listener, 

Disposed  to  give  a  hearing  to  the  lost, 

And  breakfast  with  them  ere  they  went  below. 

From  alpine  metaphysic  glaciers  first 

The  talk  sprang  copious  ;  the  themes  were  old, 

But  so  is  human  breath,  so  infant  eyes, 

The  daily  nurslings  of  creative  light. 

Small  words  held  mighty  meanings  :  Matter,  Force, 
Self,  Not-self,  Being,  Seeming,  Space  and  Time  — 
Plebeian  toilers  on  the  dusty  road 
Of  daily  traffic,  turned  to  Genii 
And  cloudy  giants  darkening  sun  and  moon. 
Creation  was  reversed  in  human  talk : 

None  said,  “  Let  Darkness  be,”  but  Darkness  was ; 
And  in  it  weltered  with  Teutonic  ease, 

An  argumentative  Leviathan, 

Blowing.cascades  from  out  his  element, 

The  thunderous  Rosencranz,  till 

“  Truce,  I  beg !  ” 

Said  Osric,  with  nice  accent.  11 1  abhor 
That  battling  of  the  ghosts,  that  strife  of  terms 
For  utmost  lack  of  color,  form,  and  breath, 

That  tasteless  squabbling  called  Philosophy; 

As  if  a  blue-winged  butterfly  afloat 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY. 


405 


For  just  three  days  above  the  Italian  fields, 
Poising  in  sunshine,  fluttering  toward  its  bride. 
Should  fast  and  speculate,  considering 
What  were  if  it  were  not  ?  or  what  now  is 
Instead  of  that  which  seems  to  be  itself  ? 

Its  deepest  wisdom  surely  were  to  be 
A  sipping,  marrying,  blue-winged  butterfly  ; 
Since  utmost  speculation  on  itself 
Were  but  a  three  days’  living  of  worse  sort— - 
A  bruising  struggle  all  within  the  bounds 
Of  butterfly  existence.” 

“  I  protest,” 

Burst  in  Laertes,  u  against  arguments 
That  start  with  calling  me  a  butterfly, 

A  bubble,  spark,  or  other  metaphor 
Which  carries  your  conclusions  as  a  phrase 
In  quibbling  law  will  carry  property. 

Put  a  thin  sucker  for  my  human  lips 
Fed  at  a  mother’s  breast,  who  now  needs  food 
That  I  will  earn  for  her ;  put  bubbles  blown 
From  frothy  thinking,  for  the  joy,  the  love, 

The  wants,  the  pity,  and  the  fellowship 
(The  ocean  deeps  I  might  say,  were  I  bent 
On  bandying  metaphors)  that  make  a  man  — 
Why,  rhetoric  brings  within  your  easy  reacn 
Conclusions  worthy  of  —  a  butterfly. 

The  universe,  I  hold,  is  no  charade, 

No  acted  pun  unriddled  by  a  word, 

Nor  pain  a  decimal  diminishing 
With  hocus-pocus  of  a  dot  or  naught. 

For  those  who  know  it,  pain  is  solely  pain: 

Not  any  letters  of  the  alphabet 
Wrought  syllogistieally  pattern-wise, 

Nor  any  cluster  of  fine  images, 

Nor  any  missing  of  their  figured  dance 


406 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


By  blundering  molecules.  Analysis 
May  show  you  the  right  physic  for  the  ill, 
Teaching  the  molecules  to  find  their  dance, 
Instead  of  sipping  at  the  heart  of  flowers. 

But  spare  me  your  analogies,  that  hold 
Such  insight  as  the  figure  of  a  crow 
And  bar  of  music  put  to  signify 
A  crowbar.7’ 

Said  the  Priest,  “  There  I  agree 
Would  add  that  sacramental  grace  is  grace 
Which  to  be  known  must  first  be  felt,  with  all 
The  strengthening  influxes  that  come  by  prayer. 
I  note  this  passingly  —  would  not  delay 
The  conversation’s  tenor,  save  to  hint 
That  taking  stand  with  Rosencranz  one  sees 
Final  equivalence  of  all  we  name 
Our  Good  and  Ill  —  their  difference  meanwhile 
Being  inborn  prejudice  that  plumps  you  down 
An  Ego,  brings  a  weight  into  your  scale 
Forcing  a  standard.  That  resistless  weight 
Obstinate,  irremovable  by  thought, 

Persisting  through  disproof,  an  ache,  a  need 
That  spaceless  stays  where  sharp  analysis 
Has  shown  a  plenum  filled  without  it  —  what 
If  this,  to  use  your  phrase,  were  just  that  Being 
Not  looking  solely,  grasping  from  the  dark, 
Weighing  the  difference  you  call  Ego  ?  This 
Gives  you  persistence,  regulates  the  flux 
With  strict  relation  rooted  in  the  All. 

Who  is  he  of  your  late  philosophers 
Takes  the  true  name  of  Being  to  be  Will  ? 

X  —  nay,  the  Church  objects  naught,  is  content; 
Reason  has  reached  its  utmost  negative, 

Physic  and  metaphysic  meet  in  the  inane 
And  backward  shrink  to  intense  prejudice, 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY. 


407 


Making  their  absolute  and  homogene 
A  loaded  relative,  a  choice  to  be 
Whatever  is  —  supposed :  a  What  is  not. 

The  Church  demands  no  more,  has  standing  room 
And  basis  for  her  doctrine :  this  (no  more)  — 

That  the  strong  bias  which  we  name  the  Soul, 
Though  fed  and  clad  by  dissoluble  waves, 

Has  antecedent  quality,  and  rules 
By  veto  or  consent  the  strife  of  thought, 

Making  arbitrament  that  we  call  faith.” 

Here  was  brief  silence,  till  young  Hamlet  spoke. 

“  I  crave  direction,  Father,  how  to  know 
The  sign  of  that  imperative  whose  right 
To  sway  my  act  in  face  of  thronging  doubts 
Were  an  oracular  gem  in  price  beyond 
Urim  and  Thummim  lost  to  Israel. 

That  bias  of  the  soul,  that  conquering  die 
Loaded  with  golden  emphasis  of  Will  — 

How  find  it  where  resolve,  once  made,  becomes 

The  rash  exclusion  of  an  opposite 

Which  draws  the  stronger  as  I  turn  aloof.” 

“I  think  I  hear  a  bias  in  your  words,” 

The  Priest  said  mildly  —  u  that  strong  natural  bent 
Which  we  call  hunger.  What  more  positive 
Than  appetite  ?  —  of  spirit  or  of  flesh, 

I  care  not  —  ‘  sense  of  need ?  were  truer  phrase. 

You  hunger  for  authoritative  right, 

And  yet  discern  no  difference  of  tones, 

No  weight  of  rod  that  marks  imperial  rule  ? 

Laertes  granting,  I  will  put  your  case 
In  analogic  form :  the  doctors  hold 
Hunger  which  gives  no  relish  —  save  caprice 
That  tasting  venison  fancies  mellow  pears  — 

A  symptom  of  disorder,  and  prescribe 


408 


POEMS  OF  GEOPvGE  ELIOT. 


Strict  discipline.  Were  I  physician  here 
I  would  prescribe  that  exercise  of  soul 
Which,  lies  in  full  obedience  :  you  ask, 
Obedience  to  what  ?  The  answer  lies 
Within  the  word  itself ;  for  how  obey 
What  has  no  rule,  asserts  no  absolute  claim  f 
Take  inclination,  taste — why,  that  is  you, 

No  rule  above  you.  Science,  reasoning 
On  nature’s  order  —  they  exist  and  move 
Solely  by  disputation,  hold  no  pledge 
Of  final  consequence,  but  push  the  swing 
Where  Epicurus  and  the  Stoic  sit 
In  endless  see-saw.  One  authority, 

And  only  one,  says  simply  this,  Obey : 

Place  yourself  in  that  current  (test  it  so !) 

Of  spiritual  order  where  at  least 
Lies  promise  of  a  high  communion, 

A  Head  informing  members,  Life  that  breathes 
With  gift  of  forces  over  and  above 
The  plus  of  arithmetic  interchange. 

( The  Church  too  has  a  body,’  you  object, 

<  Can  be  dissected,  put  beneath  the  lens 
And  shown  the  merest  continuity 
Of  all  existence  else  beneath  the  sun.’ 

I  grant  yon ;  but  the  lens  will  not  disprove 
A  present  which  eludes  it.  Take  your  wit, 
Your  highest  passion,  widest-reaching  thought : 
Show  their  conditions  if  you  will  or  can, 

But  though  you  saw  the  final  atom-dance 
Making  each  molecule  that  stands  for  sign 
Of  love  being  present,  where  is  still  your  love  ? 
How  measure  that,  how  certify  its  weight  ? 
And  so  I  say,  the  body  of  the  Church 
Carries  a  Presence,  promises  and  gifts 
Never  disproved  —  whose  argument  is  found 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY.  403  * 

In  lasting  failure  of  the  search  elsewhere 
For  what  it  holds  to  satisfy  man’s  need. 

But  I  grow  lengthy :  my  excuse  must  be 
Y  our  question,  Hamlet,  which  has  probed  right  through 
To  the  pith  of  our  belief.  And  I  have  robbed 
Myself  of  pleasure  as  a  listener. 

’T  is  noon,  I  see ;  and  my  appointment  stands 
For  half-past  twelve  with  Voltimand.  Good-by.” 

Brief  parting,  brief  regret  —  sincere,  but  quenched 
In  fumes  of  best  Havana,  which  consoles 
For  lack  of  other  certitude.  Then  said, 

Mildly  sarcastic,  quiet  Guildenstern : 

“  I  marvel  how  the  Father  gave  new  charm 
To  weak  conclusions  :  I  was  half  convinced 
The  poorest  reasoner  made  the  finest  man, 

And  held  his  logic  lovelier  for  its  limp.” 

“  I  fain  would  hear,”  said  Hamlet,  “how  you  find 
A  stronger  footing  than  the  Father  gave. 

How  base  your  self-resistance  save  on  faith 

In  some  invisible  Order,  higher  Right 

Than  changing  impulse.  What  does  Reason  bid  ? 

To  take  as  fullest  rationality 

What  offers  best  solution  :  so  the  Church. 

Science,  detecting  hydrogen  aflame 
Outside  our  firmament,  leaves  mystery 
Whole  and  untouched  beyond ;  nay,  in  our  blood 
And  in  the  potent  atoms  of  each  germ 
The  Secret  lives  —  envelops,  penetrates 
Whatever  sense  perceives  or  thought  divines. 

Science,  whose  soul  is  explanation,  halts 
With  hostile  front  at  mystery.  The  Church 
Takes  mystery  as  her  empire,  brings  its  wealth 
Of  possibility  to  fill  the  void 


410 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


’Twixt  contradictions  —  warrants  so  a  faith 
Defying  sense  and  all  its  ruthless  train 
Of  arrogant  e  Therefores.’  Science  with  her  lens 
Dissolves  the  Forms  that  made  the  other  half 
Of  all  our  love,  which  thenceforth  widowed  lives 
To  gaze  with  maniac  stare  at  what  is  not. 

The  Church  explains  not,  governs  —  feeds  resolve 
By  vision  fraught  with  heart-experience 
And  human  yearning.” 

“Ay,”  said  Guildenstern, 
With  friendly  nod,  “  the  Father,  I  can  see, 

Has  caught  you  up  in  his  air-chariot. 

His  thought  takes  rainbow-bridges,  out  of  reach 

By  solid  obstacles,  evaporates 

The  coarse  and  common  into  subtilties, 

Insists  that  what  is  real  in  the  Church 
Is  something  out  of  evidence,  and  begs 
(J ust  in  parenthesis)  you  ’ll  never  mind 
What  stares  you  in  the  face  and  bruises  you. 

Why,  by  his  method  I  could  justify 
Each  superstition  and  each  tyranny 
That  ever  rode  upon  the  back  of  man, 

Pretending  fitness  for  his  sole  defence 
Against  life’s  evil.  How  can  aught  subsist 
That  holds  no  theory  of  gain  or  good  ? 

Despots  with  terror  in  their  red  right  hand 
Must  argue  good  to  helpers  and  themselves, 

Must  let  submission  hold  a  core  of  gain 
To  make  their  slaves  choose  life.  Their  theory. 
Abstracting  inconvenience  of  racks, 

Whip-lashes,  dragonnades  and  all  things  coarse 
Inherent  in  the  fact  or  concrete  mass, 

Presents  the  pure  idea  —  utmost  good 
Secured  by  Order  only  to  be  found 
In  strict  subordination,  hierarchy 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY. 


411 


Of  forces  where,  by  nature’s  law,  the  strong 
Has  rightful  empire,  rule  of  weaker  proved 
Mere  dissolution.  What  can  you  object  ? 

The  Inquisition  —  if  you  turn  away 
From  narrow  notice  how  the  scent  of  gold 
Has  guided  sense  of  damning  heresy  — 

The  Inquisition  is  sublime,  is  love 
Hindering  the  spread  of  poison  in  men’s  souls : 
The  flames  are  nothing :  only  smaller  pain 
To  hinder  greater,  or  the  pain  of  one 
To  save  the  many,  such  as  throbs  at  heart 
Of  every  system  born  into  the  world. 

So  of  the  Church  as  high  communion 
Of  Head  with  members,  fount  of  spirit  force 
Beyond  the  calculus,  and  carrying  proof 
In  her  sole  power  to  satisfy  man’s  need : 

That  seems  ideal  truth  as  clear  as  lines 
That,  necessary  though  invisible,  trace 
The  balance  of  the  planets  and  the  sun  — 

Until  I  find  a  hitch  in  that  last  claim. 

1  To  satisfy  man’s  need.’  Sir,  that  depends : 

We  settle  first  the  measure  of  man’s  need 
Before  we  grant  capacity  to  fill. 

J ohn,  J ames,  or  Thomas,  you  may  satisfy : 

But  since  you  choose  ideals  I  demand 
Your  Church  shall  satisfy  ideal  man, 

His  utmost  reason  and  his  utmost  love. 

And  say  these  rest  a-hungered  —  find  no  scheme 
Content  them  both,  but  hold  the  world  accursedt 
A  Calvary  where  Reason  mocks  at  Love, 

And  Love  forsaken  sends  out  orphan  cries 
Hopeless  of  answer ;  still  the  soul  remains 
Larger,  diviner  than  your  half-way  Church, 
Which  racks  your  reason  into  false  consent, 

And  soothes  your  Love  with  sops  of  selfishness.” 


412 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


“  There  I  am  with  you,”  cried  Laertes.  “  What 
To  me  are  any  dictates,  though  they  came 
With  thunders  from  the  Mount,  if  still  within 
I  see  a  higher  Right,  a  higher  Good 
Compelling  love  and  worship  ?  Though  the  earth 
Held  force  electric  to  discern  and  kill 
Each  thinking  rebel  —  what  is  martyrdom 
But  death-defying  utterance  of  belief, 

Which  being  mine  remains  my  truth  supreme 
Though  solitary  as  the  throb  of  pain 
Lying  outside  the  pulses  of  the  world  ? 

Obedience  is  good :  ay,  but  to  what  ? 

And  for  what  ends  ?  For  say  that  I  rebel 
Against  your  rule  as  devilish,  or  as  rule 
Of  thunder-guiding  powers  that  deny 
Man’s  highest  benefit :  rebellion  then 
Were  strict  obedience  to  another  rule 
Which  bids  me  flout  your  thunder.” 

“  Lo  you  now  1 

Said  Osric,  delicately,  “  how  you  come, 

Laertes  mine,  with  all  your  warring  zeal 
As  Python-slayer  of  the  present  age  — 

Cleansing  all  social  swamps  by  darting  rays 
Of  dubious  doctrine,  hot  with  energy 
Of  private  judgment  and  disgust  for  doubt  — 

To  state  my  thesis,  which  you  most  abhor 
When  sung  in  Daphnis-notes  beneath  the  pines 
To  gentle  rush  of  waters.  Your  belief  — 

In  essence  what  is  it  but  simply  Taste  ? 

I  urge  with  you  exemption  from  all  claims 
That  come  from  other  than  my  proper  wilL, 

An  Ultimate  within  to  balance  yours, 

A  solid  meeting  you,  excluding  you, 

Till  you  show  fuller  force  by  entering 
My  spiritual  space  and  crushing  Me 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY. 


413 


To  a  subordinate  complement  of  You: 

Such  ultimate  must  stand  alike  for  all. 

Preach  your  crusade,  then:  all  will  join  who  like 
The  hurly-burly  of  aggressive  creeds ; 

Still  your  unpleasant  Ought,  your  itch  to  choose 
What  grates  upon  the  sense,  is  simply  Taste, 

Differs,  I  think,  from  mine  (permit  the  word, 
Discussion  forces  it)  in  being  bad.” 

The  tone  was  too  polite  to  breed  offence, 

Showing  a  tolerance  of  what  was  “  bad  ” 

Becoming  courtiers.  Louder  Rosencranz 
Took  up  the  ball  with  rougher  movement,  wont 
To  show  contempt  for  doting  reasoners 
Who  hugged  some  reasons  with  a  preference, 

As  warm  Laertes  did :  he  gave  five  puffs 
Intolerantly  sceptical,  then  said : 

“  Your  human  good,  which  you  would  make  supreme, 
How  do  you  know  it  ?  Has  it  shown  its  face 
In  adamantine  type,  with  features  clear, 

As  this  republic,  or  that  monarchy  ? 

As  federal  grouping,  or  municipal  ? 

Equality,  or  finely  shaded  lines 

Of  social  difference  ?  ecstatic  whirl 

And  draught  intense  of  passionate  joy  and  pain, 

Or  sober  self-control  that  starves  its  youth 
And  lives  to  wonder  what  the  world  calls  joy  ? 

Is  it  in  sympathy  that  shares  men’s  pangs, 

Or  in  cool  brains  that  can  explain  them  well  ? 

Is  it  in  labor  or  in  laziness  ? 

In  training  for  the  tug  of  rivalry 
To  be  admired,  or  in  the  admiring  soul  ? 

In  risk  or  certitude  ?  In  battling  rage 
And  hardy  challenges  of  Protean  luck, 

Or  in  a  sleek  and  rural  apathy 


414 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Full  fed  with  sameness  \  Pray  define  your  Good 
Beyond  rejection  by  majority  ; 

Next,  tow  it  may  subsist  without  the  Ill 
Which  seems  its  only  outline.  Show  a  world 
Of  pleasure  not  resisted ;  or  a  world 
Of  pressure  equalized,  yet  various 
In  action  formative  ;  for  that  will  serve 
As  illustration  of  your  human  good  — 

Which  at  its  perfecting  (your  goal  of  hope) 

Will  not  be  straight  extinct,  or  fall  to  sleep 
In  the  deep  bosom  of  the  Unchangeable. 

What  will  you  work  for,  then,  and  call  it  good 
With  full  and  certain  vision  —  good  for  aught 
Save  partial  ends  which  happen  to  be  yours  ? 
How  will  you  get  your  stringency  to  bind 
Thought  or  desire  in  demonstrated  tracks 
Which  are  but  waves  within  a  balanced  whole  ? 

Is  1  relative  ’  the  magic  word  that  turns 
Your  flux  mercurial  of  good  to  gold  ? 

Why,  that  analysis  at  which  you  rage 
As  anti-social  force  that  sweeps  you  down 
The  world  in  one  cascade  of  molecules, 

Is  brother  ‘ relative’  —  and  grins  at  you 
Like  any  convict  whom  you  thought  to  send 
Outside  society,  till  this  enlarged 
And  meant  New  England  and  Australia  too. 

The  Absolute  is  your  shadow,  and  the  space 
Which  you  say  might  be  real  were  you  milled 
To  curves  pellicular,  the  thinnest  thin, 

Equation  of  no  thickness,  is  still  you.” 

“  Abstracting  all  that  makes  him  clubbable,” 
Horatio  interposed.  But  Rosencranz, 

Deaf  as  the  angry  turkey-cock  whose  ears 
Are  plugged  by  swollen  tissues  when  he  scold* 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY. 


416 


At  men’s  pretensions  :  “  Pooh,  your  f  Relative* 

Shuts  you  in,  hopeless,  with  your  progeny 
As  in  a  Hunger-tower ;  your  social  good, 

Like  other  deities  by  turn  supreme, 

Is  transient  reflex  of  a  prejudice, 

Anthology  of  causes  and  effects 

To  suit  the  mood  of  fanatics  who  lead 

The  mood  of  tribes  or  nations.  I  admit 

If  you  could  show  a  sword,  nay,  chance  of  sword 

Hanging  conspicuous  to  their  inward  eyes 

With  edge  so  constant  threatening  as  to  sway 

All  greed  and  lust  by  terror  ;  and  a  law 

Clear- writ  and  proven  as  the  law  supreme 

Which  that  dread  sword  enforces  —  then  your  Right, 

Duty,  or  social  Good,  were  it  once  brought 

To  common  measure  with  the  potent  law, 

Would  dip  the  scale,  would  put  unchanging  marks 
Of  wisdom  or  of  folly  on  each  deed, 

And  warrant  exhortation.  Until  then, 

Where  is  your  standard  or  criterion  ? 

1  What  always,  everywhere,  by  all  men 9  —  why, 

That  were  but  Custom,  and  your  system  needs 
Ideals  never  yet  incorporate, 

The  imminent  doom  of  Custom.  Can  you  find 
Appeal  beyond  the  sentience  in  each  man  ? 

Frighten  the  blind  with  scarecrows  ?  raise  an  awe 

Of  things  unseen  where  appetite  commands 

Chambers  of  imagery  in  the  soul 

At  all  its  avenues  ?  —  You  chant  your  hymns 

To  Evolution,  on  your  altar  lay 

A  sacred  egg  called  Progress  :  have  you  proved 

A  Best  unique  where  all  is  relative, 

And  where  each  change  is  loss  as  well  as  gain  ? 

The  age  of  healthy  Saurians,  well  supplied 
With  heat  and  prey,  will  balance  well  enough 


416 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


A  human  age  where  maladies  are  strong 
And  pleasures  feeble  ;  wealth  a  monster  gorged 
?Mid  hungry  populations ;  intellect 
Aproned  in  laboratories,  bent  on  proof 
That  this  is  that  and  both  are  good  for  naught 
Save  feeding  error  through  a  weary  life  ; 

While  Art  and  Poesy  struggle  like  poor  ghosts 
To  hinder  cock-crow  and  the  dreadful  light, 
Lurking  in  darkness  and  the  charnel-house, 

Or  like  two  stalwart  graybeards,  imbecile 
With  limbs  still  active,  playing  at  belief, 

That  hunt  the  slipper,  foot-ball,  hide-and-seek, 
Are  sweetly  merry,  donning  pinafores 
And  lisping  enndously  in  their  speech. 

O  human  race  !  Is  this  then  all  thy  gain  ?  — 
Working  at  disproof,  playing  at  belief, 

Debate  on  causes,  distaste  of  effects, 

Power  to  transmute  all  elements,  and  lack 
Of  any  power  to  sway  the  fatal  skill 
And  make  thy  lot  aught  else  than  rigid  doom  ? 
The  Saurians  were  better.  —  Guild  enstern, 

Pass  me  the  taper.  Still  the  human  curse 
Has  mitigation  in  the  best  cigars.” 

Then  swift  Laertes,  not  without  a  glare 
Of  leonine  wrath :  “  I  thank  thee  for  that  word 
That  one  confession,  were  I  Socrates, 

Should  force  you  onward  till  you  ran  your  head 
At  your  own  image  —  flatly  gave  the  lie 
To  all  your  blasphemy  of  that  human  good 
Which  bred  and  nourished  you  to  sit  at  ease 
And  learnedly  deny  it.  Say  the  world 
Groans  ever  with  the  pangs  of  doubtful  births  ? 
Say,  life  ’s  a  poor  donation  at  the  best  — 
Wisdom  a  yearning  after  nothingness  — 
Nature’s  great  vision  and  the  thrill  supreme 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY. 


417 


Of  thought-fed  passion  but  a  weary  play  — 

I  argue  not  against  you.  Who  can  prove 
Wit  to  be  witty  when  with  deeper  ground 
Dulness  intuitive  declares  wit  dull  ? 

If  life  is  worthless  to  you  —  why,  it  is. 

You  only  know  how  little  love  you  feel 
To  give  you  fellowship,  how  little  force 
Responsive  to  the  quality  of  things. 

Then  end  your  life,  throw  off  the  unsought  yoke. 

If  not  —  if  you  remain  to  taste  cigars, 

Choose  racy  diction,  perorate  at  large 
With  tacit  scorn  of  meaner  men  who  win 
No  wreath  or  tripos  —  then  admit  at  least 
A  possible  Better  in  the  seeds  of  earth ; 

Acknowledge  debt  to  that  laborious  life 
Which,  sifting  evermore  the  mingled  seeds, 

Testing  the  Possible  with  patient  skill, 

And  daring  ill  in  presence  of  a  good 

For  futures  to  inherit,  made  your  lot 

One  you  would  choose  rather  than  end  it,  nay, 

Rather  than,  say,  some  twenty  million  lots 
Of  fellow-Britons  toiling  all  to  make 
That  nation,  that  community,  whereon 
You  feed  and  thrive  and  talk  philosophy. 

I  am  no  optimist  whose  faith  must  hang 
On  hard  pretence  that  pain  is  beautiful 
And  agony  explained  for  men  at  ease 
By  virtue’s  exercise  in  pitying  it. 

But  this  I  hold :  that  he  who  takes  one  gift 
Made  for  him  by  the  hopeful  work  of  man, 

Who  tastes  sweet  bread,  walks  where  he  will  unarmed, 
His  shield  and  warrant  the  invisible  law, 

Who  owns  a  hearth  and  household  charities, 

Who  clothes  his  body  and  his  sentient  soul 
W  ith  skill  and  thoughts  of  men,  and  yet  denies 

27 


118 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


A  human  good  worth  toiling  for,  is  cursed 
With  worse  negation  than  the  poet  feigned 
In  Mephistopheles.  The  Devil  spins 
His  wire-drawn  argument  against  all  good 
With  sense  of  brimstone  as  his  private  lot, 

And  never  drew  a  solace  from  the  Earth.” 

Laertes  fuming  paused,  and  Guildenstern 
Took  up  with  cooler  skill  the  fusillade : 

“  I  meet  your  deadliest  challenge,  Rosencranz: 
Where  get,  you  say,  a  binding  law,  a  rule 
Enforced  by  sanction,  an  Ideal  throned 
With  thunder  in  its  hand  ?  I  answer,  there 
Whence  every  faith  and  rule  has  drawn  its  force 
Since  human  consciousness  awaking  owned 
An  Outward,  whose  unconquerable  sway 
Resisted  first  and  then  subdued  desire 
By  pressure  of  the  dire  Impossible 
Urging  to  possible  ends  the  active  soul 
And  shaping  so  its  terror  and  its  love. 

Why,  you  have  said  it  —  threats  and  promises 
Depend  on  each  man’s  sentience  for  their  force : 
All  sacred  rules,  imagined  or  revealed, 

Can  have  no  form  or  potency  apart 
From  the  percipient  and  emotive  mind. 

God,  duty,  love,  submission,  fellowship, 

Must  first  be  framed  in  man,  as  music  is, 

Before  they  live  outside  him  as  a  law. 

And  still  they  grow  and  shape  themselves  anew, 
With  fuller  concentration  in  their  life 
Of  inward  and  of  outward  energies 
Blending  to  make  the  last  result  called  Man, 
Which  means,  not  this  or  that  philosopher 
Looking  through  beauty  into  blankness,  not 
The  swindler  who  has  sent  his  fruitful  lie 


A  COLLEGE  BliEAKFAST-PARTY. 


419 


By  the  last  telegram :  it  means  the  tide 
Of  needs  reciprocal,  toil,  trust,  and  love  — 

The  surging  multitude  of  human  claims 
Which  make  “  a  presence  not  to  be  put  by  n 
Above  the  horizon  of  the  general  soul. 

Is  inward  Reason  shrunk  to  subtleties, 

And  inward  wisdom  pining  passion-starved  ?  — 
The  outward  Reason  has  the  world  in  store, 
Regenerates  passion  with  the  stress  of  want, 
Regenerates  knowledge  with  discovery, 

Shows  sly  rapacious  Self  a  blunderer, 

Widens  dependence,  knits  the  social  whole 
In  sensible  relation  more  defined. 

Do  Boards  and  dirty-handed  millionnaires 

Govern  the  planetary  system  ?  —  sway 

The  pressure  of  the  Universe  ?  —  decide 

That  man  henceforth  shall  retrogress  to  ape, 

Emptied  of  every  sympathetic  thrill 

The  All  has  wrought  in  him  ?  dam  up  henceforth 

The  flood  of  human  claims  as  private  force 

To  turn  their  wheels  and  make  a  private  hell 

For  fish-pond  to  their  mercantile  domain  ? 

What  are  they  but  a  parasitic  growth 
On  the  vast  real  and  ideal  world 
Of  man  and  nature  blent  in  one  divine  ? 

Why,  take  your  closing  dirge  —  say  evil  grows 
And  good  is  dwindling ;  science  mere  decay, 

Mere  dissolution  of  ideal  wholes 

Which  through  the  ages  past  alone  have  made 

The  earth  and  firmament  of  human  faith ; 

Say,  the  small  arc  of  Being  we  call  man 
Is  near  its  mergence,  what  seems  growing  life 
Naught  but  a  hurrying  change  toward  lower  types, 
The  ready  rankness  of  degeneracy. 

Well,  they  who  mourn  for  the  world’s  dying  gooa 


420 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


May  ta^e  their  common  sorrows  for  a  rock, 
On  it  erect  religion  and  a  church, 

A  worship,  rites,  and  passionate  piety  — 
The  worship  of  the  Best  though  crucified 
And  God-forsaken  in  its  dying  pangs ; 

The  sacramental  rites  of  fellowship 
In  common  woe ;  visions  that  purify 
Through  admiration  and  despairing  love 
Which  keep  their  spiritual  life  intact 
Beneath  the  murderous  clutches  of  disproof 
And  feed  a  martyr-strength.” 


“  Religion  high  1 99 

(Rosencranz  here)  u  But  with  communicants 
Fey  as  the  cedars  upon  Lebanon — 

A  child  might  count  them.  What  the  world  demands 
Is  faith  coercive  of  the  multitude.” 

“  Tush,  Guildenstern,  you  granted  him  too  much,” 
Burst  in  Laertes ;  “  I  will  never  grant 
One  inch  of  law  to  feeble  blasphemies 
Which  hold  no  higher  ratio  to  life  — 

Full  vigorous  human  life  that  peopled  earth 

And  wrought  and  fought  and  loved  and  bravely  died— ■ 

Than  the  sick  morning  glooms  of  debauchees. 

Old  nations  breed  old  children,  wizened  babes 
Whose  youth  is  languid  and  incredulous, 

Weary  of  life  without  the  will  to  die  ; 

Their  passions  visionary  appetites 
Of  bloodless  spectres  wailing  that  the  world 
For  lack  of  substance  slips  from  out  their  grasp  *, 

Their  thoughts  the  withered  husks  of  all  things  dead, 
Holding  no  force  of  germs  instinct  with  life, 

Which  never  hesitates  but  moves  and  grows. 

Yet  hear  them  boast  in  screams  their  godlike  ill, 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY. 


421 


Excess  of  knowing !  Fie  on  you,  Rosencranz ! 

You  lend  your  brains  and  fine-dividing  tongue 
For  bass-notes  to  this  shrivelled  crudity, 

This  immature  decrepitude  that  strains 
To  fill  our  ears  and  claim  the  prize  of  strength 
For  mere  unmanliness.  Out  on  them  all !  — 

Wits,  puling  minstrels,  and  philosophers, 

Who  living  softly  prate  of  suicide, 

And  suck  the  commonwealth  to  feed  their  ease 
While  they  vent  epigrams  and  threnodies, 

Mocking  or  wailing  all  the  eager  work 

Which  makes  that  public  store  whereon  they  feed. 

Is  wisdom  flattened  sense  and  mere  distaste  ? 

Why,  any  superstition  warm  with  love, 

Inspired  with  purpose,  wild  with  energy 
That  streams  resistless  through  its  ready  frame, 

Has  more  of  human  truth  within  its  life 

Than  souls  that  look  through  color  into  naught  — 

Whose  brain,  too  unimpassioned  for  delight, 

Has  feeble  ticklings  of  a  vanity 

Which  finds  the  universe  beneath  its  mark, 

And  scorning  the  blue  heavens  as  merely  blue 
Can  only  say,  ‘  What  then  ? 9  —  pre-eminent 
In  wondrous  want  of  likeness  to  their  kind, 

Founding  that  worship  of  sterility 

Whose  one  supreme  is  vacillating  Will 

Which  makes  the  Light,  then  says,  ‘  ?T  were  better  not,;  " 

Here  rash  Laertes  brought  his  Handel-strain 
As  of  some  angry  Polypheme,  to  pause ; 

And  Osric,  shocked  at  ardors  out  of  taste, 

Relieved  the  audience  with  a  tenor  voice 
And  delicate  delivery. 

“  For  me, 

I  range  myself  in  line  with  Rosencranz 


422 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Against  all  schemes,  religious  or  profane, 

That  flaunt  a  Good  as  pretext  for  a  lash 
To  flog  us  all  who  have  the  better  taste, 

Into  conformity,  requiring  me 
At  peril  of  the  thong  and  sharp  disgrace 
To  care  how  mere  Philistines  pass  their  lives ; 
Whether  the  English  pauper-total  grows 
From  one  to  two  before  the  naughts ;  how  far 
Teuton  will  outbreed  Roman ;  if  the  class 
Of  proletaires  will  make  a  federal  band 
To  bind  all  Europe  and  America, 

Throw,  in  their  wrestling,  every  government, 
Snatch  the  world:s  purse  and  keep  the  guillotine: 
Or  else  (admitting  these  are  casualties) 

Driving  my  soul  with  scientific  hail 

That  shuts  the  landscape  out  with  particles  ; 

Insisting  that  the  Palingenesis 

Means  telegraphs  and  measure  of  the  rate 

At  which  the  stars  move  —  nobody  knows  where. 

So  far,  my  Rosencranz,  we  are  at  one. 

But  not  when  you  blaspheme  the  life  of  Art, 

The  sweet  perennial  youth  of  Poesy, 

Which  asks  no  logic  but  its  sensuous  growth, 

No  right  but  loveliness ;  which  fearless  strolls 
Betwixt  the  burning  mountain  and  the  sea, 
Reckless  of  earthquake  and  the  lava  stream, 
Filling  its  hour  with  beauty.  It  knows  naught 
Of  bitter  strife,  denial,  grim  resolve, 

Sour  resignation,  busy  emphasis 

Of  fresh  illusions  named  the  new-born  True, 

Old  Error’s  latest  child  ;  but  as  a  lake 
Images  all  things,  yet  within  its  depths 
Dreams  them  all  lovelier  —  thrills  with  sound 
And  makes  a  harp  of  plenteous  liquid  chords  — 
So  Art  or  Poesy :  we  its  votaries 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY. 


42a 


Are  the  Olympians,  fortunately  born 
From  the  elemental  mixture  ;  ’t  is  our  lot 
To  pass  more  swiftly  than  the  Delian  God, 

But  still  the  earth  breaks  into  flowers  for  us, 

And  mortal  sorrows  when  they  reach  our  ears 
Are  dying  falls  to  melody  divine. 

Hatred,  war,  vice,  crime,  sin,  those  human  storms, 
Cyclones,  floods,  what  you  will  —  outbursts  of  force  ■— 
Feed  art  with  contrast,  give  the  grander  touch 
To  the  master’s  pencil  and  the  poet’s  song, 

Serve  as  Vesuvian  fires  or  navies  tossed 
On  yawning  waters,  which  when  viewed  afar 
Deepen  the  calm  sublime  of  those  choice  souls 
Who  keep  the  heights  of  poesy  and  turn 
A  fleckless  mirror  to  the  various  world, 

Giving  its  many-named  and  fitful  flux 
An  imaged,  harmless,  spiritual  life, 

With  pure  selection,  native  to  art’s  frame, 

Of  beauty  only,  save  its  minor  scale 
Of  ill  and  pain  to  give  the  ideal  joy 
A  keener  edge.  This  is  a  mongrel  globe ; 

All  finer  being  wrought  from  its  coarse  earth 
Is  but  accepted  privilege  :  what  else 
Your  boasted  virtue,  which  proclaims  itself 
A  good  above  the  average  consciousness  ? 

Nature  exists  by  partiality 

(Each  planet’s  poise  must  carry  two  extremes 

With  verging  breadths  of  minor  wretchedness): 

We  are  her  favorites  and  accept  our  wings. 

For  your  accusal,  Rosencranz,  that  art 
Shares  in  the  dread  and  weakness  of  the  time, 

I  hold  it  null ;  since  art  or  poesy  pure, 

Being  blameless  by  all  standards  save  her  own, 

Takes  no  account  of  modern  or  antique 
In  morals,  science,  or  philosophy : 


424 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT 


No  dull  elenchus  makes  a  yoke  for  heq 
Whose  law  and  measure  are  the  sweet  consent* 

Of  sensibilities  that  move  apart 

From  rise  or  fall  of  systems,  states  or  creeds  — 

Apart  from  what  Philistines  call  maids  weal.” 

“  Ay,  we  all  know  those  votaries  of  the  Muse 
Ravished  with  singing  till  they  quite  forgot 
Their  manhood,  sang,  and  gaped,  and  took  no  food* 
Then  died  of  emptiness,  and  for  reward 
Lived  on  as  grasshoppers  ”  —  Laertes  thus  : 

But  then  he  checked  himself  as  one  who  feels 
His  muscles  dangerous,  and  Guildenstern 
Filled  up  the  pause  with  calmer  confidence. 

“You  use  your  wings,  my  Osric,  poise  yourself 
Safely  outside  all  reach  of  argument, 

Then  dogmatize  at  will  (a  method  known 
To  ancient  women  and  philosophers, 

Nay,  to  Philistines  whom  you  most  abhor); 

Else,  could  an  arrow  reach  you,  I  should  ask 
Whence  came  taste,  beauty,  sensibilities 
Refined  to  preference  infallible  ? 

Doubtless,  ye  7re  gods  —  these  odors  ye  inhale, 

A  sacrificial  scent.  But  how,  I  pray, 

Are  odors  made,  if  not  by  gradual  change 
Of  sense  or  substance  ?  Is  your  beautiful 
A  seedless,  rootless  flower,  or  has  it  grown 
With  human  growth,  which  means  the  rising  sun 
Of  human  struggle,  order,  knowledge  ?  —  sense 
Trained  to  a  fuller  record,  more  exact  — 

To  truer  guidance  of  each  passionate  force  ? 

Get  me  your  roseate  flesh  without  the  blood ; 

Get  fine  aromas  without  structure  wrought 
From  simpler  being  into  manifold  : 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY. 


425 


Then  and  then  only  flaunt  your  Beautiful 
As  what  can  live  apart  from  thought,  creeds,  states, 
Which  mean  life's  structure.  Osric,  I  beseech  — 

The  infallible  should  be  more  catholic  — 

J oin  in  a  war-dance  with  the  cannibals, 

Hear  Chinese  music,  love  a  face  tattooed, 

Give  adoration  to  a  pointed  skull, 

And  think  the  Hindu  Siva  looks  divine : 

'T  is  art,  ’t  is  poesy.  Say,  you  object : 

How  came  you  by  that  lofty  dissidence, 

If  not  through  changes  in  the  social  man 
Widening  his  consciousness  from  Here  and  Now 
To  larger  wholes  beyond  the  reach  of  sense  j 
Controlling  to  a  fuller  harmony 
The  thrill  of  passion  and  the  rule  of  fact ; 

And  paling  false  ideals  in  the  light 
Of  full-rayed  sensibilities  which  blend 
Truth  and  desire  ?  Taste,  beauty,  what  are  they 
But  the  soul’s  choice  toward  perfect  bias  wrought 
By  finer  balance  of  a  fuller  growth  — 

Sense  brought  to  subtlest  metamorphosis 
Through  love,  thought,  joy  —  the  general  human  store 
Which  grows  from  all  life’s  functions  ?  As  the  plant 
Holds  its  corolla,  purple,  delicate, 

Solely  as  outflush  of  that  energy 

Which  moves  transformingly  in  root  and  branch.” 

Guildenstern  paused,  and  Hamlet  quivering 
Since  Osric  spoke,  in  transit  imminent 
From  catholic  striving  into  laxity, 

Ventured  his  word.  “  Seems  to  me,  Guildenstern, 
Your  argument,  though  shattering  Osric’s  point 
That  sensibilities  can  move  apart 
From  social  order,  yet  has  not  annulled 
His  thesis  that  the  life  of  poesy 


426 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


(Admitting  it  must  grow  from  out  the  whole) 

Has  separate  functions,  a  transfigured  realm 
Freed  from  the  rigors  of  the  practical, 

Where  what  is  hidden  from  the  grosser  world  — 
Stormed  down  by  roar  of  engines  and  the  shouts 
Of  eager  concourse  —  rises  beauteous 
As  voice  of  water-drops  in  sapphire  caves ; 

A  realm  where  finest  spirits  have  free  sway 

In  exquisite  selection,  uncontrolled 

By  hard  material  necessity 

Of  cause  and  consequence.  For  you  will  grant 

The  Ideal  has  discoveries  which  ask 

No  test,  no  faith,  save  that  we  joy  in  them : 

A  new-found  continent,  with  spreading  lands 
Where  pleasure  charters  all,  where  virtue,  rank, 
Use,  right,  and  truth  have  but  one  name,  Delight 
Thus  Art’s  creations,  when  etherealized 
To  least  admixture  of  the  grosser  fact 
Delight  may  stamp  as  highest.” 


“  Possible !  ” 

Said  Guildenstern,  with  touch  of  weariness, 

“  But  then  we  might  dispute  of  what  is  gross, 
What  high,  what  low.” 


“  Nay,”  said  Laertes,  “  ask 
The  mightiest  makers  who  have  reigned,  still  reign 
Within  the  ideal  realm.  See  if  their  thought 
Be  drained  of  practice  and  the  thick  warm  blood 
Of  hearts  that  beat  in  action  various 
Through  the  wide  drama  of  the  struggling  world. 
Good-by,  Horatio.” 


Each  now  said  “  Good-by.” 
Such  breakfast,  such  beginning  of  the  day 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY. 


427 


Is  more  than  half  the  whole.  The  sun  was  hot 
On  southward  branches  of  the  meadow  elms, 

The  shadows  slowly  farther  crept  and  veered 
Like  changing  memories,  and  Hamlet  strolled 
Alone  and  dubious  on  the  empurpled  path 
Between  the  waving  grasses  of  new  June 
Close  by  the  stream  where  well-compacted  boats 
Were  moored  or  moving  with  a  lazy  creak 
To  the  soft  dip  of  oars.  All  sounds  were  light 
As  tiny  silver  bells  upon  the  robes 
Of  hovering  silence.  Birds  made  twitterings 
That  seemed  but  Silence’  self  o’erfull  of  love. 

’T  was  invitation  all  to  sweet  repose  ; 

And  Hamlet,  drowsy  with  the  mingled  draughts 
Of  cider  and  conflicting  sentiments, 

Chose  a  green  couch  and  watched  with  half-closed  eyes 
The  meadow-road,  the  stream  and  dreamy  lights, 

Until  they  merged  themselves  in  sequence  strange 
With  undulating  ether,  time,  the  soul, 

The  will  supreme,  the  individual  claim, 

The  social  Ought,  the  lyrist’s  liberty, 

Democritus,  Pythagoras,  in  talk 

With  Anselm,  Darwin,  Comte,  and  Schopenhauer, 

The  poets  rising  slow  from  out  their  tombs 
Summoned  as  arbiters  —  that  border-world 
Of  dozing,  ere  the  sense  is  fully  locked. 

And  then  he  dreamed  a  dream  so  luminous 
He  woke  (he  says)  convinced  ;  but  what  it  taught 
Withholds  as  yet.  Perhaps  those  graver  shades 
Admonished  him  that  visions  told  in  haste 
Part  Tfrith  their  virtues  to  the  squandering  lips 
And  leave  the  soul  in  wider  emptiness. 

April,  1874. 


I 


TWO  LOVERS. 


TWO  lovers  by  a  moss-grown  spring  : 

They  leaned  soft  cheeks  together  them 
Mingled  the  dark  and  sunny  hair, 

And  heard  the  wooing  thrushes  sing. 

0  budding  time  l 
0  love’s  blest  prime  l 

Two  wedded  from  the  portal  stept : 

The  bells  made  happy  carollings, 

The  air  was  soft  as  fanning  wings, 

White  petals  on  the  pathway  slept. 

0  pure-eyed  bride ! 

0  tender  pride ! 

Two  faces  o’er  a  cradle  bent : 

Two  hands  above  the  head  were  locked : 
These  pressed  each  other  while  they  rocked; 
Those  watched  a  life  that  love  had  sent. 

O  solemn  hour  ! 

0  hidden  power ! 

Two  parents  by  the  evening  fire  : 

The  red  light  fell  about  their  knees 
On  heads  that  rose  by  slow  degrees 
Xjike  buds  upon  the  lily  spire. 

O  patient  life ! 

0  tender  strife ! 


Two  lovers  by  a  moss-grown  spring, 


TWO  LOVERS. 


429 


The  two  still  sat  together  there, 

The  red  light  shone  about  their  knees  \ 

But  all  the  heads  by  slow  degrees 
Had  gone  and  left  that  lonely  pair. 

0  voyage  fast ! 

O  vanished  past  I 

The  red  light  shone  upon  the  floor 

And  made  the  space  between  them  wide  \ 

They  drew  their  chairs  up  side  by  side, 

Their  pale  cheeks  joined,  and  said,  “  Once  more  ! n 

O  memories  ! 

0  past  that  is  l 


im, 


SELF  AND  LIFE. 


Self. 

CHANGEFUL  comrade,  Life  of  min** 

Before  we  two  must  part, 

I  will  tell  thee,  thou  shalt  say, 

What  thou  hast  been  and  art. 

Ere  I  lose  my  hold  of  thee 
Justify  thyself  to  me. 

Life. 

I  was  thy  warmth  upon  thy  mother’s  knee 
When  light  and  love  within  her  eyes  were  one 
We  laughed  together  by  the  laurel-tree, 

Culling  warm  daisies  ’neath  the  sloping  sun  j 

We  heard  the  chickens’  lazy  croon, 

Where  the  trellised  woodbines  grew, 

And  all  the  summer  afternoon 

Mystic  gladness  o’er  thee  threw. 

Was  it  person  ?  Was  it  thing  ? 

Was  it  touch  or  whispering  ? 

It  was  bliss  and  it  was  I : 

Bliss  was  what  thou  knew’st  me  by 

* 

Self. 

Soon  I  knew  thee  more  by  Fear 
And  sense  of  what  was  not, 

Haunting  all  I  held  most  dear  $ 

I  had  a  double  lot : 

Ardor,  cheated  with  alloy, 

Wept  the  more  for  dreams  of  joy. 


SELF  AND  LIFE. 


481 


Life. 

Remember  how  thy  ardor’s  magic  sense 

Made  poor  things  rich  to  thee  and  small  things  great  \ 
How  hearth  and  garden,  field  and  bushy  fence, 

Were  thy  own  eager  love  incorporate  ; 

And  how  the  solemn,  splendid  Past 
O’er  thy  early  widened  earth 
Made  grandeur,  as  on  sunset  cast 
Dark  elms  near  take  mighty  girth. 

Hands  and  feet  were  tiny  still 
When  we  knew  the  historic  thrill, 

Breathed  deep  breath  in  heroes  dead; 

Tasted  the  immortals’  bread. 

Self. 

Seeing  what  I  might  have  been 
Reproved  the  thing  I  was, 

Smoke  on  heaven’s  clearest  sheen, 

The  speck  within  the  rose. 

By  revered  ones’  frailties  stung 
Reverence  was  with  anguish  wrung. 

Life. 

But  all  thy  anguish  and  thy  discontent 
Was  growth  of  mine,  the  elemental  strife 
Toward  feeling  manifold  with  vision  blent 
To  wider  thought :  I  was  no  vulgar  life 

That,  like  the  water-mirrored  ape, 

Not  discerns  the  thing  it  sees, 

Nor  knows  its  own  in  others’  shape, 

Railing,  scorning,  at  its  ease. 


432 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Half  man’s  truth  must  hidden  ho 
If  unlit  by  Sorrow’s  eye. 

I  by  Sorrow  wrought  in  thee 
Willing  pain  of  ministry. 

Self. 

Slowly  was  the  lesson  taught 
Through  passion,  error,  care ; 

Insight  was  the  loathing  fraught 
And  effort  with  despair. 

Written  on  the  wall  I  saw 
“  Bow  !  ”  I  knew,  not  loved,  the  law. 

Life. 

But  then  I  brought  a  love  that  wrote  within 
I  he  law  of  gratitude,  and  made  thy  heart 
Beat  to  the  heavenly  tune  of  seraphim 
Whose  only  joy  in  having  is,  to  impart : 

Till  thou,  poor  Self  —  despite  thy  ire, 
Wrestling  ’gainst  my  mingled  share, 
Thy  faults,  hard  falls,  and  vain  desire 
Still  to  be  what  others  were  — 

Filled,  o’erflowed  with  tenderness 
Seeming  more  as  thou  wert  less, 
Knew  me  through  that  anguish  past 
As  a  fellowship  more  vast. 

Self. 

Yea,  I  embrace  thee,  changeful  Life  I 
Far-sent,  unchosen  mate ! 

Self  and  thou,  no  more  at  strife, 

Shall  wed  in  hallowed  state. 

Willing  spousals  now  shall  prove 
Life  is  justified  by  love. 


“  SWEET  EVENINGS  COME  AND  GO,  LOVE." 


“  La  noche  buena  se  viene, 

La  noche  buena  se  va, 

Y  nosotros  nos  iremos 
Y  no  volveremos  mas.” 

—  Old  Villancico. 

SWEET  evenings  come  and  go,  love, 
They  came  and  went  of  yore : 

This  evening  of  our  life,  love, 

Shall  go  and  come  no  more. 

When  we  have  passed  away,  love, 

All  things  will  keep  their  name ; 

But  yet  no  life  on  earth,  love. 

With  ours  will  be  same. 

The  daisies  will  be  there,  love, 

The  stars  in  heaven  will  shine  i 
I  shall  not  feel  thy  wish,  love, 

Nor  thou  my  hand  in  thine. 

A  better  time  will  come,  love, 

And  better  souls  be  born : 

I  would  not  be  the  best,  love, 

To  leave  thee  now  forlorn. 


28 


THE  DEATH  OF  MOSES. 


MOSES,  who  spake  with  God  as  with  his  friena, 
And  ruled  his  people  with  the  twofold  power 
Of  wisdom  that  can  dare  and  still  be  meek, 

Was  writing  his  last  word,  the  sacred  name 
Unutterable  of  that  Eternal  Will 
Which  was  and  is  and  evermore  shall  be. 

Yet  was  his  task  not  finished,  for  the  flock 
Needed  its  shepherd  and  the  life-taught  sage 
Leaves  no  successor ;  but  to  chosen  men, 

The  rescuers  and  guides  of  Israel, 

A  death  was  given  called  the  Death  of  Grace, 

Which  freed  them  from  the  burden  of  the  flesh 
But  left  them  rulers  of  the  multitude 
And  loved  companions  of  the  lonely.  This 
Was  God’s  last  gift  to  Moses,  this  the  hour 
When  soul  must  part  from  self  and  be  but  soul 

God  spake  to  Gabriel,  the  messenger 
Of  mildest  death  that  draws  the  parting  life 
Gently,  as  when  a  little  rosy  child 
Lifts  up  its  lips  from  off  the  bowl  of  milk 
And  so  draws  forth  a  curl  that  dipped  its  gold 
In  the  soft  white  —  thus  Gabriel  draws  the  soul. 

Go  bring  the  soul  of  Moses  unto  me  !  ” 

And  the  awe-stricken  angel  answered,  “  Lord, 

How  shall  I  dare  to  take  his  life  who  lives 
Sole  of  his  kind,  not  to  be  likened  once 
In  all  the  generations  of  the  earth  ?  ” 


THE  DEATH  OF  MOSES. 


485 


Then  God  called  Michael,  him  of  pensive  brow, 
Snow-vest  and  flaming  sword,  who  knows  and  acts : 

“  Go  bring  the  spirit  of  Moses  unto  me  !  ” 

But  Michael  with  such  grief  as  angels  feel, 

Loving  the  mortals  whom  they  succor,  pled : 

“  Almighty,  spare  me ;  it  was  I  who  taught 
Thy  servant  Moses ;  he  is  part  of  me 
As  I  of  thy  deep  secrets,  knowing  them.” 

Then  God  called  Zamael,  the  terrible, 

The  angel  of  fierce  death,  of  agony 
That  comes  in  battle  and  in  pestilence 
Remorseless,  sudden  or  with  lingering  throes. 

And  Zamael,  his  raiment  and  broad  wings 
Blood-tinctured,  the  dark  lustre  of  his  eyes 
•  Shrouding  the  red,  fell  like  the  gathering  night 
Before  the  prophet.  But  that  radiance 
Won  from  the  heavenly  presence  in  the  mount 
Gleamed  on  the  prophet’s  brow  and  dazzling  pierced 
Its  conscious  opposite  :  the  angel  turned 
His  murky  gaze  aloof  and  inly  said : 

“  An  angel  this,  deathless  to  angel’s  stroke.” 

But  Moses  felt  the  subtly  nearing  dark : 

“  Who  art  thou  ?  and  what  wilt  thou  ?  ”  Zamael  then : 
“  I  am  God’s  reaper ;  through  the  fields  of  life 
I  gather  ripened  and  unripened  souls 
Both  willing  and  unwilling.  And  I  come 
Now  to  reap  thee.”  But  Moses  cried, 

Firm  as  a  seer  who  waits  the  trusted  sign : 

“Reap  thou  the  fruitless  plant  and  common  herb  — 
Not  him  who  from  the  womb  was  sanctified 
To  teach  the  law  of  purity  and  love.” 

And  Zamael  baffled  from  his  errand  fled. 


436 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


But  Moses,  pausing,  in  the  air  serene 
Heard  now  that  mystic  whisper,  far  yet  near, 

The  all-penetrating  Voice,  that  said  to  him, 

“  Moses,  the  hour  is  come  and  thou  must  die." 

“  Lord,  I  obey ;  but  thou  rememberest 
How  thou,  Ineffable,  didst  take  me  once 
Within  thy  orb  of  light  untouched  by  death." 

Then  the  voice  answered,  “  Be  no  more  afraid : 

With  me  shall  be  thy  death  and  burial." 

So  Moses  waited,  ready  now  to  die. 

And  the  Lord  came,  invisible  as  a  thought, 

Three  angels  gleaming  on  his  secret  track, 

Prince  Michael,  Zagael,  Gabriel,  charged  to  guard 
The  soul-forsaken  body  as  it  fell 
And  bear  it  to  the  hidden  sepulchre 
Denied  forever  to  the  search  of  man. 

And  the  Voice  said  to  Moses :  “  Close  thine  eyes." 

He  closed  them.  “  Lay  thine  hand  upon  thine  heart, 
And  draw  thy  feet  together."  He  obeyed. 

And  the  Lord  said,  “  O  spirit !  child  of  mine  ! 

A  hundred  years  and  twenty  thou  hast  dwelt 
Within  this  tabernacle  wrought  of  clay. 

This  is  the  end :  come  forth  and  flee  to  heaven." 

But  the  grieved  soul  with  plaintive  pleading  cried, 

“  I  love  this  body  with  a  clinging  love  : 

The  courage  fails  me,  Lord,  to  part  from  it." 

u  0  child,  come  forth  !  for  thou  shalt  dwell  with 
About  the  immortal  throne  where  seraphs  joy 
Ln  growing  vision  and  in  growing  love." 

Yet  hesitating,  fluttering,  like  the  bird 
With  young  wing  weak  and  dubious,  the  soul. 


THE  DEATH  OF  MOSES. 


437 


Stayed.  But  behold  !  upon  the  death-dewed  lips 
A  kiss  descended,  pure,  unspeakable  — 

The  bodiless  Love  without  embracing  Love 
That  lingered  in  the  body,  drew  it  forth 
With  heavenly  strength  and  carried  it  to  heaven. 

But  now  beneath  the  sky  the  watchers  all, 

Angels  that  keep  the  homes  of  Israel 
Or  on  high  purpose  wander  o’er  the  world 
Leading  the  Gentiles,  felt  a  dark  eclipse : 

The  greatest  ruler  among  men  was  gone. 

And  from  the  westward  sea  was  heard  a  wail, 

A  dirge  as  from  the  isles  of  Javanim, 

Crying,  “  Who  now  is  left  upon  the  earth 

Like  him  to  teach  the  right  and  smite  the  wrong  ? 99 

And  from  the  East,  far  o’er  the  Syrian  waste, 

Came  slowlier,  sadlier,  the  answering  dirge : 

“  No  prophet  like  him  lives  or  shall  arise 
In  Israel  or  the  world  forevermore.” 

But  Israel  waited,  looking  toward  the  mount, 

Till  with  the  deepening  eve  the  elders  came 
Saying,  “  His  burial  is  hid  with  God. 

We  stood  far  off  and  saw  the  angels  lift 
His  corpse  aloft  until  they  seemed  a  star 
That  burnt  itself  away  within  the  sky.” 

The  people  answered  with  mute  orphaned  gaze 
Looking  for  what  had  vanished  evermore. 

Then  through  the  gloom  without  them  and  within 
The  spirit’s  shaping  light,  mysterious  speech, 
Invisible  Will  wrought  clear  in  sculptured  sound, 
The  thought-begotten  daughter  of  the  voice, 

Thrilled  on  their  listening  sense  :  “  He  has  no  tomb. 
He  dwells  not  with  you  dead,  but  lives  as  Law.” 


ARION. 


(Herod,  i.  24.) 

ARIObT,  whose  melodic  soul 

Taught  the  dithyramb  to  roll 
Like  forest  fires,  and  sing 
Olympian  suffering, 

Had  carried  his  diviner  lore 
From  Corinth  to  the  sister  shore 

Where  Greece  could  largelier  be, 
Branching  o’er  Italy. 

Then  weighted  with  his  glorious  name 
And  bags  of  gold,  aboard  he  came 
’Mid  harsh  seafaring  men 
To  Corinth  bound  again. 

The  sailors  eyed  the  bags  and  thought : 
“  The  gold  is  good,  the  man  is  naught  — 
And  who  shall  track  the  wave 
That  opens  for  his  grave  ?  ” 

With  brawny  arms  and  cruel  eyes 
The}^  press  around  him  where  he  lies 
In  sleep  beside  his  lyre, 

Hearing  the  Muses  quire. 


ARION. 


489 


He  waked  and  saw  this  wolf-faced  Death 
Breaking  the  dream  that  filled  his  breath 
With  inspiration  strong 
Of  yet  unchanted  song. 

u  Take,  take  my  gold  and  let  me  live  ! ,f 
He  prayed,  as  kings  do  when  they  give 
Their  all  with  royal  will, 

Holding  born  kingship  still. 


To  rob  the  living  they  refuse, 

One  death  or  other  he  must  choose, 
Either  the  watery  pall 
Or  wounds  and  burial. 

"My  solemn  robe  then  let  me  don, 

Give  me  high  space  to  stand  upon, 

That  dying  I  may  pour 
A  song  unsung  before.” 

It  pleased  them  well  to  grant  this  prayer, 
To  hear  for  naught  how  it  might  fare 
With  men  who  paid  their  gold 
For  what  a  poet  sold. 

In  flowing  stole,  his  eyes  aglow 
With  inward  fire,  he  neared  the  prow 
And  took  his  god-like  stand, 

The  cithara  in  hand. 

The  wolfish  men  all  shrank  aloof, 

And  feared  this  singer  might  be  proof 
Against  their  murderous  power, 

After  his  lyric  hour. 


440 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


But  he,  in  liberty  of  song, 

Fearless  of  death  or  other  wrong, 

With  full  spondaic  toll 
Poured  forth  his  mighty  soul : 

Poured  forth  the  strain  his  dream  had  taught 
A  nome  with  lofty  passion  fraught 
Such  as  makes  battles  won 
On  fields  of  Marathon. 

The  last  long  vowels  trembled  then 
As  awe  within  those  wolfish  men : 

They  said,  with  mutual  stare, 

Some  god  was  present  there. 

But  lo  !  Arion  leaped  on  high, 

Ready,  his  descant  done,  to  die  5 
Not  asking,  “  Is  it  well  ?  ” 

Like  a  pierced  eagle  felL 


1*73. 


‘  OH  MAY  I  JOIN  THE  CHOIR  INVISIBLE.1 


Lxmgum  illud  tempus,  quum  non  ero,  magis  me  movet,  qua.rn  hoe 
exiguum.  —  Cicero,  ad  Att.,  xii.  18. 

OH  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 
In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence  :  live 
In  pulses  stirred  to  generosity, 

In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 
For  miserable  aims  that  end  with  self, 

In  thoughts  sublime  that  pierce  the  night  like  stars 
And  with  their  mild  persistence  urge  man’s  search 
To  vaster  issues. 


So  to  live  is  heaven : 

To  make  undying  music  in  the  world, 
Breathing  as  beauteous  order  that  controls 
With  growing  sway  the  growing  life  of  man. 
So  we  inherit  that  sweet  purity 
For  which  we  struggled,  failed,  and  agonized 
With  widening  retrospect  that  bred  despair. 
Rebellious  flesh  that  would  not  be  subdued, 

A  vicious  parent  shaming  still  its  child 
Poor  anxious  penitence,  is  quick  dissolved ; 

Its  discords,  quenched  by  meeting  harmonies, 
Die  in  the  large  and  charitable  air. 

And  all  our  rarer,  better,  truer  self, 

That  sobbed  religiously  in  yearning  song, 

That  watched  to  ease  the  burden  of  the  worldc 


442 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Laboriously  tracing  what  must  be, 

And  what  may  yet  be  better  —  saw  within 
A  worthier  image  for  the  sanctuary, 

And  shaped  it  forth  before  the  multitude 
Divinely  human,  raising  worship  so 
To  higher  reverence  more  mixed  with  love  — * 
That  better  self  shall  live  till  human  Time 
Shall  fold  its  eyelids,  and  the  human  sky 
Be  gathered  like  a  scroll  within  the  tomb 
Unread  forever. 

This  is  life  to  come, 

Which  martyred  men  have  made  more  glorious 
For  us  who  strive  to  follow.  May  I  reach 
That  purest  heaven,  be  to  other  souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony, 
Enkindle  generous  ardor,  feed  pure  love, 

Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty  — 

Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diffused, 

And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense. 

So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world. 


1867. 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


. 


♦ 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

The  Sad  Fortunes  of  the  Reverend  Amos  Barton  .  .  3 

Mr.  Gilfil’s  Love-Story . . 

Janet’s  Repentance . .  221 

A  Life  of  George  Eliot . .  401 


SCENES  OE  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


THE  SAD  FORTUNES  OF  THE  REVEREND  AMOS 

BARTON. 


VOL.  IV. 


. 


THE  SAD  FORTUNES  OF  THE  REVEREND 

AMOS  BARTON. 


- - 

CHAPTER  I. 

Shepperton  Church  was  a  very  different-looking  building 
five-and-twenty  years  ago.  To  be  sure,  its  substantial  stone 
tower  looks  at  you  through  its  intelligent  eye,  the  clock,  with 
the  friendly  expression  of  former  days ;  but  in  everything 
else  what  changes  !  Now  there  is  a  wide  span  of  slated  roof 
flanking  the  old  steeple  ;  the  windows  are  tall  and  symmet¬ 
rical  3  the  outer  doors  are  resplendent  with  oak-graining,  the 
inner  doors  reverentially  noiseless  with  a  garment  of  red 
baize ;  and  the  walls,  you  are  convinced,  no  lichen  will  ever 
again  effect  a  settlement  on  —  they  are  smooth  and  innutrient 
as  the  summit  of  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton’s  head,  after  ten  years 
of  baldness  and  supererogatory  soap.  Pass  through  the  baize 
doors  and  you  will  see  the  nave  filled  with  well-shaped 
benches,  understood  to  be  free  seats  ;  while  in  certain  eligible 
corners,  less  directly  under  the  fire  of  the  clergyman’s  eye, 
there  are  pews  reserved  for  the  Shepperton  gentility.  Ample 
galleries  are  supported  on  iron  pillars,  and  in  one  of  them 
stands  the  crowning  glory,  the  very  clasp  or  aigrette  of  Shep¬ 
perton  church-adornment  —  namely,  an  organ,  not  vary  much 
out  of  repair,  on  which  a  collector  of  small  rents,  differentiated 
by  the  force  of  circumstances  into  an  organist,  will  accompany 
the  alacrity  of  your  departure  after  the  blessing,  by  a  sacred 
minuet  or  an  easy  “  Gloria.” 

Immense  improvement !  says  the  well-regulated  mind,  which 
unintermittingly  rejoices  in  the  New  Police,  the  Tithe  Com- 


4 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


mutation  Act,  the  penny-post,  and  all  guarantees  of  human 
advancement,  and  has  no  moments  when  conservative-reform¬ 
ing  intellect  takes  a  nap,  while  imagination  does  a  little 
Toryism  by  the  sly,  revelling  in  regret  that  dear,  old,  brown, 
crumbling,  picturesque  inefficiency  is  everywhere  giving  place 
to  spick-and-span  new-painted,  new-varnished  efficiency,  which 
will  yield  endless  diagrams,  plans,  elevations,  and  sections,  but 
alas  !  no  picture.  Mine,  I  fear,  is  not  a  well-regulated  mind  : 
it  has  an  occasional  tenderness  for  old  abuses ;  it  lingers 
with  a  certain  fondness  over  the  days  of  nasal  clerks  and 
top-booted  parsons,  and  has  a  sigh  for  the  departed  shades 
of  vulgar  errors.  So  it  is  not  surprising  that  I  recall  with, 
a  fond  sadness  Shepperton  Church  as  it  was  in  the  old 
days,  with  its  outer  coat  of  rough  stucco,  its  red-tiled  roof, 
its  heterogeneous  windows  patched  with  desultory  bits  of 
painted  glass,  and  its  little  flight  of  steps  with  their  wooden 
rail  running  up  the  outer  wall,  and  leading  to  the  school- 
children’s  gallery. 

Then  inside,  what  dear  old  quaintnesses  !  which  I  began  to 
look  at  with  delight,  even  when  I  was  so  crude  a  member  of 
the  congregation,  that  my  nurse  found  it  necessary  to  provide 
for  the  reinforcement  of  my  devotional  patience  by  smuggling 
bread-and-butter  into  the  sacred  edifice.  There  was  the  chan¬ 
cel,  guarded  by  two  little  cherubim  looking  uncomfortably 
squeezed  between  arch  and  wall,  and  adorned  with  the  escutch¬ 
eons  of  the  Oldinport  family,  which  showed  me  inexhaustible 
possibilities  of  meaning  in  their  blood-red  hands,  their  death’s- 
heads  and  cross-bones,  their  leopards’  paws,  and  Maltese 
crosses.  There  were  inscriptions  on  the  panels  of  the  singing- 
gallery,  telling  of  benefactions  to  the  poor  of  Shepperton,  with 
an  involuted  elegance  of  capitals  and  final  flourishes,  which 
my  alphabetic  erudition  traced  with  ever-new  delight.  No 
benches  in  those  days  ;  but  huge  roomy  pews,  round  which 
devout  church-goers  sat  during  “  lessons,”  trying  to  look  any¬ 
where  else  than  into  each  other’s  eyes.  No  low  partitions 
allowing  you,  with  a  dreary  absence  of  contrast  and  mystery, 
to  see' everything  at  all  moments  ;  but  tall  dark  panels,  under 
whose  shadow  I  sank  with  a  sense  of  retirement  through  the 


AMOS  BARTON. 


b 

Litany,  only  to  feel  with  more  intensity  my  burst  into  the 
conspicuousness  of  public  life  when  I  was  made  to  stand  up 
on  the  seat  during  the  psalms  or  the  singing. 

And  the  singing  was  no  mechanical  affair  of  official  routine ; 
it  had  a  drama.  As  the  moment  of  psalmody  approached,  by 
some  process  to  me  as  mysterious  and  untraceable  as  the  open¬ 
ing  of  the  flowers  or  the  breaking-out  of  the  stars,  a  slate  ap¬ 
peared  in  front  of  the  gallery,  advertising  in  bold  characters 
the  psalm  about  to  be  sung,  lest  the  sonorous  announcement  of 
the  clerk  should  still  leave  the  bucolic  mind  in  doubt  on  that 
head.  Then  followed  the  migration  of  the  clerk  to  the  gallery, 
where,  in  company  with  a  bassoon,  two  key-bugles,  a  carpenter 
understood  to  have  an  amazing  power  of  singing  “  counter," 
and  two  lesser  musical  stars,  he  formed  the  complement  of  a 
choir  regarded  in  Shepperton  as  one  of  distinguished  attrac¬ 
tion,  occasionally  known  to  draw  hearers  from  the  next  parish. 
The  innovation  of  hymn-books  was  as  yet  undreamed  of ; 
even  the  New  Version  was  regarded  with  a  sort  of  melancholy 
tolerance,  as  part  of  the  common  degeneracy  in  a  time  when 
prices  had  dwindled,  and  a  cotton  gown  was  no  longer  stout 
enough  to  last  a  lifetime  ;  for  the  lyrical  taste  of  the  best 
heads  in  Shepperton  had  been  formed  on  Sternhold  and  Hop¬ 
kins.  But  the  greatest  triumphs  of  the  Shepperton  choir 
were  reserved  for  the  Sundays  when  the  slate  announced  an 
Anthem,  with  a  dignified  abstinence  from  particularization, 
both  words  and  music  lying  far  beyond  the  reach  of  the 
most  ambitious  amateur  in  the  congregation :  —  an  anthem  in 
which  the  key-bugles  always  ran  away  at  a  great  pace,  while 
the  bassoon  every  now  and  then  boomed  a  flying  shot  after 
them. 

As  for  the  clergyman,  Mr.  Gilfil,  an  excellent  old  gentleman, 
who  smoked  very  long  pipes  and  preached  very  short  sermons, 
I  must  not  speak  of  him,  or  I  might  be  tempted  to  tell  the 
story  of  his  life,  which  had  its  little  romance,  as  most  lives 
have  between  the  ages  of  teetotum  and  tobacco.  And  at 
present  I  am  concerned  with  quite  another  sort  of  clergyman 
—  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton,  who  did  not  come  to  Shepperton 
Until  long  after  Mr.  Gilfil  had  departed  this  life  —  until  after 


6 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


an  interval  in  which  Evangelicalism  and  the  Catholic  Question 
had  begun  to  agitate  the  rustic  mind  with  controversial  de¬ 
bates.  A  Popish  blacksmith  had  produced  a  strong  Protes¬ 
tant  reaction  by  declaring  that,  as  soon  as  the  Emancipation 
Bill  was  passed,  he  should  do  a  great  stroke  of  business  in 
gridirons  ;  and  the  disinclination  of  the  Shepperton  parish¬ 
ioners  generally  to  dim  the  unique  glory  of  St.  Lawrence, 
rendered  the  Church  and  Constitution  an  affair  of  their  busi¬ 
ness  and  bosoms.  A  zealous  Evangelical  preacher  had  made 
the  old  sounding-board  vibrate  with  quite  a  different  sort  of 
elocution  from  Mr.  Gilfil’s  ;  the  hymn-book  had  almost  super¬ 
seded  the  Old  and  New  Versions  ;  and  the  great  square  pews 
were  crowded  with  new  faces  from  distant  corners  of  the 
parish  —  perhaps  from  Dissenting  chapels. 

You  are  not  imagining,  I  hope,  that  Amos  Barton  was  the 
incumbent  of  Shepperton.  He .  was  no  such  thing.  Those 
were  days  when  a  man  could  hold  three  small  livings,  starve  a 
curate  apiece  on  two  of  them,  and  live  badly  himself  on  the 
third.  It  was  so  with  the  Vicar  of  Shepperton  ;  a  vicar  given 
to  bricks  and  mortar,  and  thereby  running  into  debt  far  away 
in  a  northern  county  —  who  executed  his  vicarial  functions 
towards  Shepperton  by  pocketing  the  sum  of  thirty-five  pounds 
ten  per  annum,  the  net  surplus  remaining  to  him  from  the 
proceeds  of  that  living,  after  the  disbursement  of  eighty 
pounds  as  the  annual  stipend  of  his  curate.  And  now,  pray, 
,ean  you  solve  me  the  following  problem  ?  Given  a  man  with 
a  wife  and  six  children  :  let  him  be  obliged  always  to  exhibit 
himself  when  outside  his  own  door  in  a  suit  of  black  broad¬ 
cloth,  such  as  will  not  undermine  the  foundations  of  the 
Establishment  by  a  paltry  plebeian  glossiness  or  an  unseemly 
whiteness  at  the  edges  ;  in  a  snowy  cravat,  which  is  a  serious 
investment  of  labor  in  the  hemming,  starching,  and  ironing 
departments  ;  and  in  a  hat  which  shows  no  symptom  of  taking 
to  the  hideous  doctrine  of  expediency,  and  shaping  itself 
according  to  circumstances  ;  let  him  have  a  parish  large 
enough  to  create  an  external  necessity  for  abundant  shoe- 
leather,  and  an  internal  necessity  for  abundant  beef  and 
mutton,  as  well  as  poor  enough  to  require  frequent  priestly 


AMOS  BARTON. 


? 

consolation  in  the  shape  of  shillings  and  sixpences ;  and, 
lastly,  let  him  be  compelled,  by  his  own  pride  and  other 
people’s,  to  dress  his  wife  and  children  with  gentility  from 
bonnet-strings  to  shoe-strings.  By  what  process  of  division 
can  the  sum  of  eighty  pounds  per  annum  be  made  to  yield  a 
quotient  which  will  cover  that  man’s  weekly  expenses  ?  This 
was  the  problem  presented  by  the  position  of  the  Rev.  Amos 
Barton,  as  curate  of  Shepperton,  rather  more  than  twenty 
years  ago. 

What  was  thought  of  this  problem,  and  of  the  man  who  had 
to  work  it  out,  by  some  of  the  well-to-do  inhabitants  of  Shep¬ 
perton,  two  years  or  more  after  Mr.  Barton’s  arrival  among 
them,  you  shall  hear,  if  you  will  accompany  me  to  Cross  Farm, 
and  to  the  fireside  of  Mrs.  Patten,  a  childless  old  lady,  who  had 
got  rich  chiefly  by  the  negative  process  of  spending  nothing. 
Mrs.  Patten’s  passive  accumulation  of  wealth,  through  all  sorts 
of  “  bad  times,”  on  the  farm  of  which  she  had  been  sole  tenant 
since  her  husband’s  death,  her  epigrammatic  neighbor,  Mrs. 
Hackit,  sarcastically  accounted  for  by  supposing  that  a  six¬ 
pences  grew  on  the  bents  of  Cross  Farm  ;  ”  while  Mr.  Hackit, 
expressing  his  views  more  literally,  reminded  his  wife  that 
“  money  breeds  money.”  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hackit,  from  the  neigh¬ 
boring  farm,  are  Mrs.  Patten’s  guests  this  evening ;  so  is  Mr. 
Pilgrim,  the  doctor  from  the  nearest  market-town,  who,  though 
occasionally  affecting  aristocratic  airs,  and  giving  late  dinners 
with  enigmatic  side-dishes  and  poisonous  port,  is  never  sc 
comfortable  as  when  he  is  relaxing  his  professional  legs  in  one 
of  those  excellent  farm-houses  where  the  mice  are  sleek  and 
the  mistress  sickly.  And  he  is  at  this  moment  in  clover. 

For  the  flickering  of  Mrs.  Patten’s  bright  fire  is  reflected  in 
her  bright  copper  tea-kettle,  the  home-made  muffins  glisten 
with  an  inviting  succulence,  and  Mrs.  Patten’s  niece,  a  single 
lady  of  fifty,  who  has  refused  the  most  ineligible  offers  out  of 
devotion  to  her  aged  aunt,  is  pouring  the  rich  cream  into  the 
fragrant  tea  with  a  discreet  liberality. 

Reader  !  did  you  ever  taste  such  a  cup  of  tea  as  Miss  Gibbs 
is  this  moment  handing  to  Mr.  Pilgrim  ?  Do  you  know  the 
dulcet  strength,  the  animating  blandness  of  tea  sufficiently 


8 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


blended  with  real  farm-house  cream?  No  —  most  likely  you 
are  a  miserable  town-bred  reader,  who  think  of  cream  as  a 
thinnish  white  fluid,  delivered  in  infinitesimal  pennyworths 
down  area  steps ;  or  perhaps,  from  a  presentiment  of  calves’ 
brains,  you  refrain  from  any  lacteal  addition,  and  rasp  your 
tongue  with  unmitigated  bohea.  You  have  a  vague  idea  of 
a  milch  cow  as  probably  a  white  plaster  animal  standing  in  a 
butterman’s  window,  and  you  know  nothing  of  the  sweet  his¬ 
tory  of  genuine  cream,  such  as  Miss  Gibbs’s :  how  it  was  this 
morning  in  the  udders  of  the  large  sleek  beasts,  as  they  stood 
lowing  a  patient  entreaty  under  the  milking-shed ;  how  it  fell 
with  a  pleasant  rhythm  into  Betty’s  pail,  sending  a  delicious 
incense  into  the  cool  air  ;  how  it  was  carried  into  that  temple 
of  moist  cleanliness,  the  dairy,  where  it  quietly  separated 
itself  from  the  meaner  elements  of  milk,  and  lay  in  mellowed 
whiteness,  ready  for  the  skimming-dish  which  transferred  it  to 
Miss  Gibbs’s  glass  cream-jug.  If  I  am  right  in  my  conjecture, 
you  are  unacquainted  with  the  highest  possibilities  of  tea ;  and 
Mr.  Pilgrim,  who  is  holding  that  cup  in  his  hand,  has  an  idea 
beyond  you. 

Mrs.  Hackit  declines  cream  ;  she  has  so  long  abstained  from 
it  with  an  eye  to  the  weekly  butter-money,  that  abstinence, 
wedded  to  habit,  has  begotten  aversion.  She  is  a  thin  woman 
with  a  chronic  liver-complaint,  which  would  have  secured  her 
Mr.  Pilgrim’s  entire  regard  and  unreserved  good  word,  even  if 
he  had  not  been  in  awe  of  her  tongue,  which  was  as  sharp  as 
his  own  lancet.  She  has  brought  her  knitting  —  no  frivolous 
fancy  knitting,  but  a  substantial  woollen  stocking;  the  click- 
click  of  her  knitting-needles  is  the  running  accompaniment  to 
all  her  conversation,  and  in  her  utmost  enjoyment  of  spoiling 
a  friend’s  self-satisfaction,  she  was  never  known  to  spoil  a 
stocking. 

Mrs.  Patten  does  not  admire  this  excessive  click-clicking 
activity.  Quiescence  in  an  easy-chair,  under  the  sense  of  com¬ 
pound  interest  perpetually  accumulating,  has  long  seemed  an 
ample  function  to  her,  and  she  does  her  malevolence  gently. 
She  is  a  pretty  little  old  woman  of  eighty,  with  a  close  cap 
and  tiny  flat  white  curls  round  her  face,  as  natty  and  unsoiled 


AMOS  BARTON. 


9 


and  invariable  as  the  waxen  image  of  a  little  old  lady  under  t 
glass-case  ;  once  a  lady’s-maid,  and  married  for  her  beauty, 
She  used  to  adore  her  husband,  and  now  she  adores  her  money, 
cherishing  a  quiet  blood-relation’s  hatred  for  her  niece,  Janet 
Gibbs,  who,  she  knows,  expects  a  large  legacy,  and  whom  she 
is  determined  to  disappoint.  Her  money  shall  all  go  in  a 
lump  to  a  distant  relation  of  her  husband’s,  and  Janet  shall  be 
saved  the  trouble  of  pretending  to  cry,  by  finding  that  she  is 
left  with  a  miserable  pittance. 

Mrs.  Patten  has  more  respect  for  her  neighbor  Mr.  Hackit 
than  for  most  people.  Mr.  Hackit  is  a  shrewd  substantial 
man,  whose  advice  about  crops  is  always  worth  listening  to, 
and  who  is  too  well  off  to  want  to  borrow  money. 

And  now  that  we  are  snug  and  warm  with  this  little  tea- 
party,  while  it  is  freezing  with  February  bitterness  outside,  we 
will  listen  to  what  they  are  talking  about. 

“  So,”  said  Mr.  Pilgrim,  with  his  mouth  only  half  empty  of 
muffin,  “  you  had  a  row  in  Shepperton  Church  last  Sunday.  I 
was  at  Jem  Hood’s,  the  bassoon-man’s,  this  morning,  attending 
his  wife,  and  he  swears  he  ’ll  be  revenged  on  the  parson  —  a 
confounded,  methodistical,  meddlesome  chap,  who  must  be  put¬ 
ting  his  finger  in  every  pie.  What  was  it  all  about  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  a  passill  o’  nonsense,”  said  Mr.  Hackit,  sticking  one 
thumb  between  the  buttons  of  his  capacious  waistcoat,  and 
retaining  a  pinch  of  snuff  with  the  other  —  for  he  was  but 
moderately  given  to  “  the  cups  that  cheer  but  not  inebriate,” 
and  had  already  finished  his  tea;  “ they  began  to  sing  the 
wedding  psalm  for  a  new-married  couple,  as  pretty  a  psalm 
an’  as  pretty  a  tune  as  any  in  the  prayer-book.  It’s  been 
sung  for  every  new-married  couple  since  I  was  a  boy.  And 
what  can  be  better  ?  ”  Here  Mr.  Hackit  stretched  out  his  left 
arm,  threw  back  his  head,  and  broke  into  melody  — 

“  ‘  Oh  what,  a  happy  thing  it  in 
And  joyful  for  to  see. 

Brethren  to  dwell  together  in 
Friendship  and  unity  ' 

But  Mr.  Barton  is  all  for  the  hymns,  and  a  sort  o’  music  as  1 
can’t  join  in  at  all.” 


10 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


“And  so,”  said  Mr.  Pilgrim,  recalling  Mr.  Hackit  from 
lyrical  reminiscences  to  narrative,  “  he  called  out  Silence  !  did 
he  ?  when  he  got  into  the  pulpit ;  and  gave  a  hymn  out  him¬ 
self  to  some  meeting-house  tune  ?  ” 

“Yes,”  said  Mrs.  Hackit  stooping  towards  the  candle  to 
pick  up  a  stitch,  “  and  turned  as  red  as  a  turkey-cock.  I  often 
say,  when  he  preaches  about  meekness,  he  gives  himself  a  slap 
in  the  face.  He ’s  like  me  —  he  ’s  got  a  temper  of  his  own.” 

“  Rather  a  low-bred  fellow,  I  think,  Barton,”  said  Mr.  Pil¬ 
grim,  who  hated  the  Rev.  Amos  for  two  reasons  —  because  ho 
had  called  in  a  new  doctor,  recently  settled  in  Shepperton ; 
and  because,  being  himself  a  dabbler  in  drugs,  he  had  the 
credit  of  having  cured  a  patient  of  Mr.  Pilgrim’s.  “  They  say 
his  father  was  a  Dissenting  shoemaker ;  and  he ’s  half  a  Dis¬ 
senter  himself.  Why,  doesn’t  he  preach  extempore  in  that 
cottage  up  here,  of  a  Sunday  evening  ?  ” 

“  Tchuh  !  ”  —  this  was  Mr.  Hackit’s  favorite  interjection  — 
“  that  preaching  without  book ’s  no  good,  only  when  a  man  has 
a  gift,  and  has  the  Bible  at  his  fingers’  ends.  It  was  all  very 
well  for  Parry  —  he ’d  a  gift ;  and  in  my  youth  I ’ve  heard  the 
Ranters  out  o’  doors  in  Yorkshire  go  on  for  an  hour  or  two 
on  end,  without  ever  sticking  fast  a  minute.  There  was  one 
clever  chap,  I  remember,  as  used  to  say,  ‘  You  ’re  like  the 
wood-pigeon ;  it  says  do,  do,  do  all  day,  and  never  sets  about 
any  work  itself.’  That’s  bringing  it  home  to  people.  But 
our  parson ’s  no  gift  at  all  that  way  ;  he  can  preach  as  good  a 
sermon  as  need  be  heard  when  he  writes  it  down.  But  when 
he  tries  to  preach  wi’out  book,  he  rambles  about,  and  does  n’t 
stick  to  his  text ;  and  every  now  and  then  he  flounders  about 
like  a  sheep  as  has  cast  itself,  and  can’t  get  on  its  legs  again. 
You  would  n’t  like  that,  Mrs.  Patten,  if  you  was  to  go  to 
church  now?” 

“Eh,  dear,”  said  Mrs.  Patten,  falling  back  in  her  chair,  and 
lifting  up  her  little  withered  hands,  “  what  ’ud  Mr.  Gilfil  say, 
if  he  was  worthy  to  know  the  changes  as  have  come  about  i’ 
the  church  these  last  ten  years  ?  I  don’t  understand  these 
new  sort  o’  doctrines.  When  Mr.  Barton  comes  to  see  me,  he 
talks  about  nothing  but  my  sins  and  my  need  o’  marcy.  Now, 


AMOS  BARTON. 


11 


Mr.  Hackit,  I  ’ve  never  been  a  sinner.  From  the  fnst  begin¬ 
ning,  when  I  went  into  service,  I  al’ys  did  my  duty  by  my 
emplyers.  I  was  a  good  wife  as  any  in  the  county  —  nevei 
aggravated  my  husband.  The  cheese-factor  used  to  say  my 
cheese  was  al’ys  to  be  depended  on.  I  Ve  known  women,  as 
their  cheeses  swelled  a  shame  to  be  seen,  when  their  husbands 
had  counted  on  the  cheese-money  to  make  up  their  rent ;  and 
yet  they ’d  three  gowns  to  my  one.  II  I  ’m  not  to  be  saved, 
I  know  a  many  as  are  in  a  bad  way.  But  it  ’s  well  for  me  as 
I  can’t  go  to  church  any  longer,  for  if  tli’  old  singers  are  to 
be  done  away  with,  there  ’ll  be  nothing  left  as  it  was  in  Mr. 
Patten’s  time  ;  and  what ’s  more,  I  hear  you ’ve  settled  to  pull 
the  church  down  and  build  it  up  new  ?  ” 

Now  the  fact  was  that  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton,  on  his  last 
visit  to  Mrs.  Patten,  had  urged  her  to  enlarge  her  promised 
subscription  of  twenty  pounds,  representing  to  her  that  she 
was  only  a  steward  of  her  riches,  and  that  she  could  not  spend 
them  more  for  the  glory  of  God  than  by  giving  a  heavy  sub¬ 
scription  towards  the  rebuilding  of  Shepperton  Church  —  a 
practical  precept  which  was  not  likely  to  smooth  the  way  to 
her  acceptance  of  his  theological  doctrine.  Mr.  Hackit,  who 
had  more  doctrinal  enlightenment  than  Mrs.  Patten,  had  been 
a  little  shocked  by  the  heathenism  of  her  speech,  and  was  glad 
of  the  new  turn  given  to  the  subject  by  this  question,  addressed 
to  him  as  church-warden  and  an  authority  in  all  parochial 
matters. 

“  Ah,”  he  answered,  “  the  parson ’s  bothered  us  into  it  at  last, 
and  we  ’re  to  begin  pulling  down  this  spring.  But  we  have  n’t 
got  money  enough  yet.  I  was  for  waiting  till  we’d  made  up 
the  sum,  and,  for  my  part,  I  think  the  congregation ’s  fell  off 
o’  late ;  though  Mr.  Barton  says  that ’s  because  there ’s  been 
no  room  for  the  people  when  they ’ve  come.  You  see,  the  con¬ 
gregation  got  so  large  in  Parry’s  time,  the  people  stood  in  the 
aisles  ;  but  there ’s  never  any  crowd  now,  as  I  can  see.” 

“Well,”  said  Mrs.  Hackit,  whose  good-nature  began  to  act 
now  that  it  was  a  little  in  contradiction  with  the  dominant 
tone  of  the  conversation,  “  1  like  Mr.  Barton.  I  think  he  ’s  a 
good  sort  o’  man,  for  all  he ’s  not  overburtlien’d  i’  th’  upper 


12 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


storey  ;  and  his  wife ’s  as  nice  a  lady-like  woman  as  I  ’d  wish 
to  see.  How  nice  she  keeps  her  children !  and  little  enough 
money  to  do ’t  with;  and  a  delicate  creatur’ —  six  children, 
and  another  a-coming.  I  don’t  know  how  they  make  both 
ends  meet,  I ’m  sure,  now  her  aunt  has  left  ’em.  But  I  sent 
’em  a  cheese  and  a  sack  o’  potatoes  last  week ;  that ’s  some¬ 
thing  towards  filling  the  little  mouths.” 

“  Ah !  ”  said  Mr.  Hackit,  “  and  my  wife  makes  Mr.  Barton 
a  good  stiff  glass  o’  brandy-and-water,  when  he  comes  in  to 
supper  after  his  cottage  preaching.  The  parson  likes  it ;  it 
puts  a  bit  o’  color  into  his  face,  and  makes  him  look  a  deal 
handsomer.” 

This  allusion  to  brandy-and-water  suggested  to  Miss  Gibbs 
the  introduction  of  the  liquor  decanters,  now  that  the  tea  was 
cleared  away  ;  for  in  bucolic  society  five-and-twenty  years  ago, 
the  human  animal  of  the  male  sex  was  understood  to  be  per¬ 
petually  athirst,  and  “  something  to  drink  ”  was  as  necessary  a 
“  condition  of  thought  ”  as  Time  and  Space. 

“Now,  that  cottage  preaching,”  said  Mr.  Pilgrim,  mixing 
himself  a  strong  glass  of  “  cold  without,”  “  I  was  talking  about 
it  to  our  Parson  Ely  the  other  day,  and  he  does  n’t  approve  of 
it  at  all.  He  said  it  did  as  much  harm  as  good  to  give  a  too 
familiar  aspect  to  religious  teaching.  That  was  what  Ely  said 
—  it  does  as  much  harm  as  good  to  give  a  too  familiar  aspect 
to  religious  teaching.” 

Mr.  Pilgrim  generally  spoke  with  an  intermittent  kind  of 
splutter ;  indeed,  one  of  his  patients  had  observed  that  it  was 
a  pity  such  a  clever  man  had  a  “  ’pediment  ”  in  his  speech. 
But  when  he  came  to  what  he  conceived  the  pith  of  his  argu¬ 
ment  or  the  point  of  his  joke,  he  mouthed  out  his  words  with 
slow  emphasis ;  as  a  hen,  when  advertising  her  accouchement, 
passes  at  irregular  intervals  from  pianissimo  semiquavers  to 
fortissimo  crotchets.  He  thought  this  speech  of  Mr.  Ely’s 
particularly  metaphysical  and  profound,  and  the  more  decisive 
of  the  question  because  it  was  a  generality  which  represented 
no  particulars  to  his  mind. 

“Well,  I  don’t  know  about  that,”  said  Mrs.  Hackit,  who  had 
always  the  courage  of  her  opinion,  “  but  I  know,  some  of  our 


AMOS  BARTON. 


18 


laborers  and.  stockingers  as  used  never  to  come  to  church,  come 
to  the  cottage,  and  that  ’s  better  than  never  hearing  anything 
good  from  week’s  end  to  week’s  end.  And  there’s  that  Track 
Society  as  Mr.  Barton  has  begun  — I  ’ve  seen  more  o’  the  poor 
people  with  going  tracking,  than  all  the  time  I ’ve  lived  in  the 
parish  before.  And  there ’d  need  be  something  done  among 
’em;  for  the  drinking  at  them  Benefit  Clubs  is  shameful. 
1  here ’s  hardly  a  steady  man  or  steady  woman  either,  but 
what’s  a  Dissenter.” 

During  this  speech  of  Mrs.  Hackit’s,  Mr.  Pilgrim  had  emit¬ 
ted  a  succession  of  little  snorts,  something  like  the  treble 
grunts  of  a  guinea-pig,  which  were  always  with  him  the  sign 
of  suppressed  disapproval.  But  he  never  contradicted  Mrs. 
Hackit  —  a  woman  whose  "  pot-luck  ”  was  always  to  be  relied 
on,  and  who  on  her  side  had  unlimited  reliance  on  bleeding, 
blistering,  and  draughts. 

Mrs.  Patten,  however,  felt  equal  disapprobation,  and  had  no 
reasons  for  suppressing  it. 

"Well,”  she  remarked,  "I ’ve  heared  of  no  good  from  inter¬ 
fering  with  one’s  neighbors,  poor  or  rich.  And  I  hate  the 
sight  o’  women  going  about  trapesing  from  house  to  house  in 
all  weathers,  wet  or  dry,  and  coming  in  with  their  petticoats 
dagged  and  their  shoes  all  over  mud.  Janet  wanted  to  join 
in  the  tracking,  but  I  told  her  I ’d  have  nobody  tracking  out 
o’  my  house  ;  when  I ’m  gone,  she  may  do  as  she  likes.  I 
never  dagged  my  petticoats  in  my  life,  and  I ’ve  no  opinion  o’ 
that  sort  o’  religion.” 

"No,”  said  Mr.  Hack  if,  who  was  fond  of  soothing  the  acer¬ 
bities  of  the  feminine  mind  with  a  jocose  compliment,  "you 
held  ycrur  petticoats  so  high,  to  show  your  tight  ankles :  it 
is  n’t  everybody  as  likes  to  show  her  ankles.” 

This  joke  met  with  general  acceptance,  even  from  the 
snubbed  Janet,  whose  ankles  were  only  tight  in  the  sense  of 
looking  extremely  squeezed  by  her  boots.  But  Janet  seemed 
always  to  identify  herself  with  her  aunt’s  personality,  holding 
her  own  under  protest. 

Under  cover  of  the  general  laughter  the  gentlemen  replen¬ 
ished  their  glasses,  Mr.  Pilgrim  attempting  to  give  his  the 


14  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

character  of  a  stirrup-cup  by  observing  that  he  “must  be 
going.”  Miss  Gibbs  seized  this  opportunity  of  telling  Mrs. 
Hackit  that  she  suspected  Betty,  the  dairymaid,  of  frying  the 
best  bacon  for  the  shepherd,  when  he  sat  up  with  her  to  “  help 
brew  j  ”  whereupon  Mrs.  Hackit  replied  that  she  had  always 
thought  Betty  false  ;  and  Mrs.  Patten  said  there  was  no  bacon 
stolen  when  she  was  able  to  manage.  Mr.  Hackit,  who  often 
complained  that  he  “  never  saw  the  like  to  women  with  their 
maids  —  he  never  had  any  trouble  with  his  men,”  avoided  lis¬ 
tening  to  this  discussion,  by  raising  the  question  of  vetches 
with  Mr.  Pilgrim.  The  stream  of  conversation  had  thus  di¬ 
verged  ;  and  no  more  was  said  about  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton, 
who  is  the  main  object  of  interest  to  us  just  now.  So  we  may 
leave  Cross  Farm  without  waiting  till  Mrs.  Hackit,  resolutely 
donning  her  clogs  and  wrappings,  renders  it  incumbent  on  Mr. 
Pilgrim  also  to  fulfil  his  frequent  threat  of  going. 


CHAPTER  II. 

It  was  happy  for  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton  that  he  did  not,  like 
us,  overhear  the  conversation  recorded  in  the  last  chapter. 
Indeed,  what  mortal  is  there  of  us,  who  would  find  his  satis, 
faction  enhanced  by  an  opportunity  of  comparing  the  picture 
he  presents  to  himself  of  his  own  doings,  with  the  picture  they 
make  on  the  mental  retina  of  his  neighbors  ?  We  are  poor 
plants  buoyed  up  by  the  air-vessels  of  our  own  conceit :  alas 
for  us,  if  we  get  a  few  pinches  that  empty  us  of  that  windy 
self-subsistence  !  The  very  capacity  for  good  would  go  out  of 
us.  For,  tell  the  most  impassioned  orator,  suddenly,  that  his 
wig  is  awry,  or  his  shirt-lap  hanging  out,  and  that  he  is  tick¬ 
ling  people  by  the  oddity  of  his  person,  instead  of  thiilling 
them  by  the  energy  of  his  periods,  and  you  would  infallibly 
dry  up  the  spring  of  his  eloquence.  That  is  a  deep  and  wids* 


AMOS  BARTON. 


15 


saying,  (‘Rat  no  miracle  can  be  wrought  without  faith  —  with, 
out  the  wori'eRs  faith  in  himself,  as  well  as  the  recipient’s 
faith  in  him.  And  the  greater  part  of  the  worker’s  faith  in 
himself  is  made  up  of  the  faith  that  others  believe  in  him. 

Let  me  be  persuaded  that  my  neighbor  Jenkins  considers 
me  a  blockhead,  and  I  snail  never  shine  in  conversation  with 
him  any  more.  Let  me  discover  that  the  lovely  Phoebe  thinks 
my  squint  intolerable,  and  I  shall  never  be  able  to  fix  her 
blandly  with  my  disengaged  eye  a§^.in. 

Thank  heaven,  then,  that  a  little  illusion  is  left  to  us,  to 
enable  us  to  be  useful  and  agreeable  —  that  we  don’t  know 
exactly  what  our  friends  think  of  us  — -  that  the  world  is  not 
made  of  looking-glass,  to  show  us  just  the  figure  we  are  mak- 
ing,  and  just  what  is  going  on  behind  our  backs  -  By  the  help 
of  dear  friendly  illusion,  we  are  able  to  dream  that  we  are 
charming  —  and  our  faces  wear  a  becoming  air  of  self-posses¬ 
sion  ;  we  are  able  to  dream  that  other  men  admire  our  talents 
—  and  our  benignity  is  undisturbed;  we  are  able  to  dream 
that  we  are  doing  much  good  —  and  we  do  a  little. 

Thus  it  was  with  Amos  Barton  on  that  very  Thursday  even- 
ing,  when  he  was  the  subject  of  the  conversation  at  Cross 
Farm.  He  had  been  dining  at  Mr.  Farquhar’s,  the  secondary 
squire  of  the  parish,  and,  stimulated  by  unwonted  gravies  and 
port-wine,  had  been  delivering  his  opinion  on  affairs  parochial 
and  extra-parochial  with  considerable  animation.  And  he  was 
now  returning  home  in  the  moonlight  — a  little  chill,  it  is  true, 
for  he  had  just  now  no  great-coat  compatible  with  clerical  dig¬ 
nity,  and  a  fur  boa  round  one’s  neck,  with  a  waterproof  cape 
over  one’s  shoulders,  doesn’t  frighten  away  the  cold  from  one’s 
legs ;  but  entirely  unsuspicious,  not  only  of  Mr.  Hackit’s  esti¬ 
mate  of  his  oratorical  powers,  but  also  of  the  critical  remarks 
passed  on  him  by  the  Misses  Farquhar  as  soon  as  the  drawing¬ 
room  door  had  closed  behind  him.  Miss  Julia  had  observed 
that  she  never  heard  any  one  sniff  so  frightfully  as  Mr.  Barton 
did  —  she  had  a  great  mind  to  offer  him  her  pocket-handker¬ 
chief  ;  and  Miss  Arabella  wondered  why  he  always  said  he 
was  going  for  to  do  a  thing.  He,  excellent  man!  was  medi¬ 
tating  fresh  pastoral  exertions  on  the  morrow;  he  would  set 


16 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


on  foot  his  lending  library ;  in  which  he  had  introduced  somt 
books  that  would  be  a  pretty  sharp  blow  to  the  Dissenters  — 
one  especially,  purporting  to  be  written  by  a  working  man, 
who,  out  of  pure  zeal  for  the  welfare  of  his  class,  took  the 
trouble  to  warn  them  in  this  way  against  those  hypocritical 
thieves,  the  Dissenting  preachers.  The  Rev.  Amos  Barton 
profoundly  believed  in  the  existence  of  that  working  man,  and 
had  thoughts  of  writing  to  him.  Dissent,  he  considered,  would 
have  its  head  bruised  in  Shepperton,  for  did  he  not  attack  it 
in  two  ways  ?  He  preached  Low-Church  doctrine  —  as  evan¬ 
gelical  as  anything  to  be  heard  in  the  Independent  Chapel; 
and  he  made  a  High-Church  assertion  of  ecclesiastical  powers 
and  functions.  Clearly,  the  Dissenters  would  feel  that  “the 
parson”  was  too  many  for  them.  Nothing  like  a  man  who 
combines  shrewdness  with  energy.  The  wisdom  of  the  serpent, 
Mr.  Barton  considered,  was  one  of  his  strong  points. 

Look  at  him  as  he  winds  through  the  little  churchyard ! 
The  silver  light  that  falls  aslant  on  church  and  tomb,  enables 
you  to  see  his  slim  black  figure,  made  all  the  slimmer  by  tight 
pantaloons,  as  it  flits  past  the  pale  gravestones.  He  walks 
with  a  quick  step,  and  is  now  rapping  with  sharp  decision  at 
the  vicarage  door.  It  is  opened  without  delay  by  the  nurse, 
cook,  and  housemaid,  all  at  once  —  that  is  to  say,  by  the  ro¬ 
bust  maid-of-all-work,  Nanny;  and  as  Mr.  Barton  hangs  up 
his  hat  in  the  passage,  you  see  that  a  narrow  face  of  no  par¬ 
ticular  complexion —  even  the  small-pox  that  has  attacked  it 
seems  to  have  been  of  a  mongrel,  indefinite  kind  —  with  fea¬ 
tures  of  no  particular  shape,  and  an  eye  of  no  particular  ex¬ 
pression,  is  surmounted  by  a  slope  of  baldness  gently  rising 
from  brow  to  crown.  You  judge  him,  rightly,  to  be  about  forty. 
The  house  is  quiet,  for  it  is  half-past  ten,  and  the  children 
have  long  been  gone  to  bed.  He  opens  the  sitting-room  door, 
but  instead  of  seeing  his  wife,  as  he  expected,  stitching  with 
the  nimblest  of  fingers  by  the  light  of  one  candle,  he  finds  her 
dispensing  with  the  light  of  a  caudle  altogether.  She  is  softly 
pacing  up  and  down  by  the  red  firelight,  holding  in  her  arms 
little  Walter,  the  year-old  baby,  who  looks  over  her  shoulder 
with  large  wide-open  eyes,  while  the  patient  mother  pats  his 


AMOS  B ASTON. 


17 


back  with  her  soft  hand,  and  glances  with  a  sigh  at  the  heap 
of  large  and  small  stockings  lying  unmended  on  the  table. 

She  was  a  lovely  woman  —  Mrs.  Amos  Barton  ;  a  large,  fair, 
gentle  Madonna,  with  thick,  close,  chestnut  curls  beside  her 
well-rounded  cheeks,  and  with  large,  tender,  short-sighted  eyes. 
The  flowing  lines  of  her  tall  figure  made  the  limpest  dress  look 
graceful,  and  her  old  frayed  black  silk  seemed  to  repose  on 
her  bust  and  limbs  with  a  placid  elegance  and  sense  of  distinc¬ 
tion,  in  strong  contrast  with  the  uneasy  sense  of  being  no  fit, 
that  seemed  to  express  itself  in  the  rustling  of  Mrs.  Farquhar’s 
gros  de  Naples.  The  caps  she  wore  would  have  been  pro¬ 
nounced,  when  off  her  head,  utterly  heavy  and  hideous _ for 

in  those  days  even  fashionable  caps  were  large  and  floppy; 
but  surmounting  her  long  arched  neck,  and  mingling  their 
borders  of  cheap  lace  and  ribbon  with  her  chestnut  curls,  they 
seemed  miracles  of  successful  millinery.  Among  strangers  she 
was  shy  and  tremulous  as  a  girl  of  fifteen ;  she  blushed  crim¬ 
son  if  any  one  appealed  to  her  opinion ;  yet  that  tall,  graceful, 
substantial  presence  was  so  imposing  in  its  mildness,  that  men 
spoke  to  her  with  an  agreeable  sensation  of  timidity. 

Soothing,  unspeakable  charm  of  gentle  womanhood !  which 
supersedes  all  acquisitions,  all  accomplishments.  You  would 
never  have  asked,  at  any  period  of  Mrs.  Amos  Barton’s  life,  if 
she  sketched  or  played  the  piano.  You  would  even  perhaps 
have  been  rather  scandalized  if  she  had  descended  from 
the  serene  dignity  of  being  to  the  assiduous  unrest  of  doing. 
Happy  the  man,  you  would  have  thought,  whose  eye  will  rest 
on  her  in  the  pauses  of  his  fireside  reading  —  whose  hot  ach¬ 
ing  forehead  will  be  soothed  by  the  contact  of  her  cool  soft 
hand  —  who  will  recover  himself  from  dejection  at  his  mis¬ 
takes  and  failures  in  the  loving  light  of  her  unreproaching 
eyes !  You  would  not,  perhaps,  have  anticipated  that  this 
bliss  would  fall  to  the  share  of  precisely  such  a  man  as  Amos 
Barton,  whom  you  have  already  surmised  not  to  have  the  re¬ 
fined  sensibilities  for  which  you  might  have  imagined  Mrs. 
Barton’s  qualities  to  be  destined  by  pre-established  harmony. 
But  I,  for  one,  do  not  grudge  Amos  Barton  this  sweet  wife.  I 
have  all  my  life  had  a  sympathy  for  mongrel  ungainly  dogs, 

VOL.  IV.  & 


18 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


who  are  nobody's  pets  ;  and  I  would  rather  surprise  one  of 
them  by  a  pat  and  a  pleasant  morsel,  than  meet  the  conde¬ 
scending  advances  of  the  loveliest  Skye-terrier  who  has  his 
cushion  by  my  lady’s  chair.  That,  to  be  sure,  is  not  the  way 
of  the  world :  if  it  happens  to  see  a  fellow  of  fine  proportions 
and  aristocratic  mien,  who  makes  no  faux  jjas,  and  wins  golden 
opinions  from  all  sorts  of  men,  it  straightway  picks  out  for 
him  the  loveliest  of  unmarried  women,  and  says,  There  would 
be  a  proper  match!  Not  at  all,  say  I:  let  that  successful, 
well-shapen,  discreet,  and  able  gentleman  put  up  with  some¬ 
thing  less  than  the  best  in  the  matrimonial  department ;  and 
let  the  sweet  woman  go  to  make  sunshine  and  a  soft  pillow  for 
the  poor  devil  whose  legs  are  not  models,  whose  efforts  are 
often  blunders,  and  who  in  general  gets  more  kicks  than  half¬ 
pence.  She — the  sweet  woman  —  will  like  it  as  well;  for  her 
sublime  capacity  of  loving  will  have  all  the  more  scope;  and 
I  venture  to  say,  Mrs.  Barton’s  nature  would  never  have  grown 
half  so  angelic  if  she  had  married  the  man  you  would  perhaps 
have  had  in  your  eye  for  her  —  a  man  with  sufficient  income 
and  abundant  personal  eclat .  Besides,  Amos  was  an  affection¬ 
ate  husband,  and,  in  his  way,  valued  his  wife  as  his  best 
treasure. 

But  now  he  has  shut  the  door  behind  him,  and  said,  “  Well, 
Milly !  ” 

“ Well,  dear!”  was  the  corresponding  greeting,  made  elo¬ 
quent  by  a  smile. 

“  So  that  young  rascal  won’t  go  to  sleep !  Can’t  you  give 
him  to  Nanny  ?  ” 

“Why,  Nanny  has  been  busy  ironing  this  evening;  but  I 
think  I  ’ll  take  him  to  her  now.”  And  Mrs.  Barton  glided 
towards  the  kitchen,  while  her  husband  ran  up-stairs  to  put 
on  his  maise-colored  dressing-gown,  in  which  costume  he  was 
,quietly  filling  his  long  pipe  when  his  wife  returned  to  the 
sitting-room.  Maize  is  a  color  that  decidedly  did  not  suit  his 
complexion,  and  it  is  one  that  soon  soils ;  why,  then,  did  Mr. 
Barton  select  it  for  domestic  wear  ?  Perhaps  because  he  had 
a  knack  of  hitting  on  the  wrong  thing  in  garb  as  well  as  in 
grammar. 


AMOS  BARTON. 


19 


Mrs.  Barton  now  lighted  her  candle,  and  seated  herself  be* 
fore  her  heap  of  stockings.  She  had  something  disagreeable 
to  tell  her  husband,  but  she  would  not  enter  on  it  at  once. 

“  Have  you  had  a  nice  evening,  dear  ?  ” 

“Yes,  pretty  well.  Ely  was  there  to  dinner,  but  went  away 
rather  early.  Miss  Arabella  is  setting  her  cap  at  him  with 
a  vengeance.  But  I  don’t  think  he ’s  much  smitten.  I ’ve  a 
notion  Ely ’s  engaged  to  some  one  at  a  distance,  and  will  aston¬ 
ish  all  the  ladies  who  are  languishing  for  him  here,  by  bring¬ 
ing  home  his  bride  one  of  these  days.  Ely ’s  a  sly  dog  ;  he  ’ll 
like  that.” 

“Did  the  Farquhars  say  anything  about  the  singing  last 
Sunday  ?  ” 

“  Yes ;  Earquhar  said  he  thought  it  was  time  there  was 
some  improvement  in  the  choir.  But  he  was  rather  scanda¬ 
lized  at  my  setting  the  tune  of  ‘  Lydia.’  He  says  he ’s  always 
hearing  it  as  he  passes  the  Independent  meeting.”  Here  Mr. 
Barton  laughed  —  he  had  a  way  of  laughing  at  criticisms  that 
other  people  thought  damaging  —  and  thereby  showed  the 
remainder  of  a  set  of  teeth  which,  like  the  remnants  of  the 
Old  Guard,  were  few  in  number,  and  very  much  the  worse  for 
wear.  “  But,”  he  continued,  “  Mrs.  Farquhar  talked  the  most 
about  Mr.  Bridmain  and  the  Countess.  She  has  taken  up  all 
the  gossip  about  them,  and  wanted  to  convert  me  to  her  opin¬ 
ion,  but  I  told  her  pretty  strongly  what  I  thought.” 

“  Dear  me  !  why  will  people  take  so  much  pains  to  find  out 
evil  about  others  ?  I  have  had  a  note  from  the  Countess 
since  you  went,  asking  us  to  dine  with  them  on  Friday.” 

Here  Mrs.  Barton  reached  the  note  from  the  mantel-piece, 
and  gave  it  to  her  husband.  We  will  look  over  his  shoulder 
while  he  reads  it :  — 

Sweetest  Milly,  —  Bring  your  lovely  face  with  your  husband 
to  dine  with  us  on  Friday  at  seven  —  do  If  not,  I  will  be  sulky  with 
you  till  Sunday,  when  I  shall  be  obliged  to  see  you,  and  shall  long 
to  kiss  you  that  very  moment.  Yours,  according  to  your  answer, 

Caroline  Czerlaski. 

“Just  like  her,  isn’t  it?”  said  Mrs.  Barton.  “I  suppose 
we  can  go  ?  ” 


20 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


“  Yes  ;  I  Lave  no  engagement.  The  Clerical  Meeting  is  to* 
morrow,  you  know.” 

“  And,  dear,  Woods  the  butcher  called,  to  say  he  must  have 
some  money  next  week.  He  has  a  payment  to  make  up.” 

This  announcement  made  Mr.  Barton  thoughtful.  He 
puffed  more  rapidly,  and  looked  at  the  fire. 

“  I  think  I  must  ask  Hackit  to  lend  me  twenty  pounds,  for 
it  is  nearly  two  months  till  Lady-day,  and  we  can’t  give  Woods 
our  last  shilling.” 

“  I  hardly  like  you  to  ask  Mr.  Hackit,  dear  —  he  and  Mrs. 
Hackit  have  been  so  very  kind  to  us ;  they  have  sent  us  so 
many  things  lately.” 

“  Then  I  must  ask  Oldinport.  -  7m  going  to  write  to  him 
to-morrow  morning,  for  to  tell  him  the  arrangement  I ’ve  been 
thinking  of  about  having  service  in  the  workhouse  while  the 
church  is  being  enlarged.  If  he  agrees  to  attend  service  there 
once  or  twice,  the  other  people  will  come.  Net  the  large  fish, 
and  you  ’re  sure  to  have  the  small  fry.” 

“  I  wish  we  could  do  without  borrowing  money,  and  yet  I 
don’t  see  how  we  can.  Poor  Fred  must  have  some  new  shoes ; 
I  could  n’t  let  him  go  to  Mrs.  Bond’s  yesterday  because  his 
toes  were  peeping  out,  dear  child  !  and  I  can’t  let  him  walk 
anywhere  except  in  the  garden.  He  must  have  a  pair  before 
Sunday.  Really,  boots  and  shoes  are  the  greatest  trouble  of 
my  life.  Everything  else  one  can  turn  and  turn  about,  and 
make  old  look  like  new  ;  but  there ’s  no  coaxing  boots  and 
shoes  to  look  better  than  they  are.” 

Mrs.  Barton  was  playfully  undervaluing  her  skill  in  meta¬ 
morphosing  boots  and  shoes.  She  had  at  that  moment  on  her 
feet  a  pair  of  slippers  which  had  long  ago  lived  through  the 
prunella  phase  of  their  existence,  and  were  now  running  a 
respectable  career  as  black  silk  slippers,  having  been  neatly 
covered  with  that  material  by  Mrs.  Barton’s  own  neat  fingers. 
Wonderful  fingers  those  !  they  were  never  empty  ;  for  if  she 
went  to  spend  a  few  hours  with  a  friendly  parishioner,  out 
came  her  thimble  and  a  piece  of  calico  or  muslin,  which,  before 
she  left,  had  become  a  mysterious  little  garment  with  all  sorts 
of  hemmed  ins  and  outs.  She  was  even  trying  to  persuada 


AMOS  BARTON. 


21 


her  husband  to  leave  off  tight  pantaloons,  because  if  he  would 
wear  the  ordinary  gun-cases,  she  knew  she  could  make  them 
so  well  that  no  one  would  suspect  the  sex  of  the  tailor. 

But  by  this  time  Mr.  Barton  has  finished  his  pipe,  the 
candle  begins  to  burn  low,  and  Mrs,  Barton  goes  to  see  if 
Nanny  has  succeeded  in  lulling  Walter  to  sleep.  Nanny  is 
that  moment  putting  him  in  the  little  cot  by  his  mother’s 
bedside ;  the  head,  with  its  thin  wavelets  of  brown  hair, 
indents  the  little  pillow ;  and  a  tiny,  waxen,  dimpled  fist 
hides  the  rosy  lips,  for  baby  is  given  to  the  infantine  pecca¬ 
dillo  of  thumb-sucking. 

So  Nanny  could  now  join  in  the  short  evening  prayer,  and 
all  could  go  to  bed. 

Mrs.  Barton  carried  up-stairs  the  remainder  of  her  heap  oi 
stockings,  and  laid  them  on  a  table  close  to  her  bedside,  where 
also  she  placed  a  warm  shawl,  removing  her  candle,  before 
she  put  it  out,  to  a  tin  socket  fixed  at  the  head  of  her  bed. 
Her  body  was  very  weary,  but  her  heart  was  not  heavy,  in 
spite  of  Mr.  Woods  the  butcher,  and  the  transitory  nature  of 
shoe-leather ;  for  her  heart  so  overflowed  with  love,  she  felt 
sure  she  was  near  a  fountain  of  love  that  would  care  for  hus¬ 
band  and  babes  better  than  she  could  foresee  ;  so  she  was 
soon  asleep.  But  about  half-past  five  o’clock  in  the  morning, 
if  there  were  any  angels  watching  round  her  bed  —  and  angels 
might  be  glad  of  such  an  office  —  they  saw  Mrs.  Barton  rise 
up  quietly,  careful  not  to  disturb  the  slumbering  Amos,  who 
was  snoring  the  snore  of  the  just,  light  her  candle,  prop  her¬ 
self  upright  with  the  pillows,  throw  the  warm  shawl  round 
her  shoulders,  and  renew  her  attack  on  the  heap  of  undarned 
stockings.  She  darned  away  until  she  heard  Nanny  stirring, 
and  then  drowsiness  came  with  the  dawn  ;  the  candle  was  put 
out,  and  she  sank  into  a  doze.  But  at  nine  o’clock  she  was  at 
the  breakfast-table,  busy  cutting  bread-and-butter  for  five  hun-  . 
gry  mouths,  while  Nanny,  baby  on  one  arm,  in  rosy  cheeks, 
fat  neck,  and  night-gown,  brought  in  a  jug  of  hot  milk-and- 
water.  Nearest  her  mother  sits  the  nine-year-old  Patty,  the 
eldest  child,  whose  sweet  fair  face  is  already  rather  grave 
sometimes,  and  who  always  wants  to  run  up-stairs  to  save 


22 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


mamma’s  legs,  which  get  so  tired  of  an  evening.  Then  there 
are  four  other  blond  heads  —  two  boys  and  two  girls,  gradu- 
ally  decreasing  in  size  down  to  Chubby,  who  is  making  a 
round  0  of  her  mouth  to  receive  a  bit  of  papa’s  “baton.” 
Papa’s  attention  was  divided  between  petting  Chubby,  rebuk¬ 
ing  the  noisy  Fred,  which  he  did  with  a  somewhat  excessive 
sharpness,  and  eating  his  own  breakfast.  He  had  not  yet 
looked  at  mamma,  and  did  not  know  that  her  cheek  was  paler 
than  usual.  But  Patty  whispered,  “Mamma,  have  you  the 
headache  ?  ” 

Happily  coal  was  cheap  in  the  neighborhood  of  Shepperton, 
and  Mr.  Hackit  would  at  any  time  let  his  horses  draw  a  load 
for  “  the  parson  ”  without  charge ;  so  there  was  a  blazing  fire 
in  the  sitting-room,  and  not  without  need,  for  the  vicarage  gar¬ 
den,  as  they  looked  out  on  it  from  the  bow-window,  was  hard 
with  black  frost,  and  the  sky  had  the  white  woolly  look  that 
portends  snow. 

Breakfast  over,  Mr.  Barton  mounted  to  his  study,  and  occu¬ 
pied  himself  in  the  first  place  with  his  letter  to  Mr.  Oldinport. 
It  was  very  much  the  same  sort  of  letter  as  most  clergymen 
would  have  written  under  the  same  circumstances,  except  that 
instead  of  perambulate,  the  Rev.  Amos  wrote  preambulate,  and 
instead  of  “  if  haply,”  “  if  happily,”  the  contingency  indicated 
being  the  reverse  of  happy.  Mr.  Barton  had  not  the  gift  of 
perfect  accuracy  in  English  orthography  and  syntax,  which 
was  unfortunate,  as  he  was  known  not  to  be  a  Hebrew  scholar, 
and  not  in  the  least  suspected  of  being  an  accomplished  Gre¬ 
cian.  These  lapses,  in  a  man  who  had  gone  through  the 
Eleusinian  mysteries  of  a  university  education,  surprised  the 
young  ladies  of  his  parish  extremely;  especially  the  Misses 
Farquhar,  whom  he  had  once  addressed  in  a  letter  as  Dear 
Mads.,  apparently  an  abbreviation  for  Madams.  The  persons 
least  surprised  at  the  Rev.  Amos’s  deficiencies  were  his  clerical 
brethren,  who  had  gone  through  the  mysteries  themselves. 

At  eleven  o’clock,  Mr.  Barton  walked  forth  in  cape  and  boa, 
with  the  sleet  driving  in  his  face,  to  read  prayers  at  the  work- 
house,  euphuistically  called  the  “  College.”  The  College  was 
a  huge  square  stone  building,  standing  on  the  best  apology  for 


AMOS  BARTON. 


28 


an  elevation  of  'ground  that  could  be  seen  for  about  ten  miles 
round  Shepperton.  A  flat  ugly  district  this ;  depressing 
enough  to  look  at  even  on  the  brightest  days.  The  roads  are 
black  with  coal-dust,  the  brick  houses  dingy  with  smoke ;  and 
at  that  time-— the  time  of  handloom  weavers  —  every  other 
cottage  had  a  loom  at  its  window,  where  you  might  see  a  pale, 
sickly-looking  man  or  woman  pressing  a  narrow  chest  against 
a  board,  and  doing  a  sort  of  tread-mill  work  with  legs  and 
arms.  A  troublesome  district  for  a  clergyman ;  at  least  to  one 
who,  like  Amos  Barton,  understood  the  “cure  of  souls”  in 
something  more  than  an  official  sense  ;  for  over  and  above  the 
rustic  stupidity  furnished  by  the  farm-laborers,  the  miners 
brought  obstreperous  animalism,  and  the  weavers  an  acrid 
Radicalism  and  Dissent.  Indeed,  Mrs.  Hackit  often  observed 
that  the  colliers,  who  many  of  them  earned  better  wages  than 
Mr.  Barton,  “passed  their  time  in  doing  nothing  but  swilling 
ale  and  smoking,  like  the  beasts  that  perish  99  (speaking,  we 
may  presume,  in  a  remotely  analogical  sense)  ;  and  in  some  of 
the  ale-house  corners  the  drink  was  flavored  by  a  dingy  kind 
of  infidelity,  something  like  rinsings  of  Tom  Paine  in  ditch- 
water.  A  certain  amount  of  religious  excitement  created  by 
the  popular  preaching  of  Mr.  Parry,  Amos’s  predecessor,  had 
nearly  died  out,  and  the  religious  life  of  Shepperton  was  fall¬ 
ing  back  towards  low-water  mark.  Here,  you  perceive,  was  a 
terrible  stronghold  of  Satan  ;  and  you  may  well  pity  the  Rev. 
Amos  Barton,  who  had  to  stand  single-handed  and  summon  it 
to  surrender.  We  read,  indeed,  that  the  walls  of  Jericho  fell 
down  before  the  sound  of  trumpets ;  but  we  nowhere  hear  that 
those  trumpets  were  hoarse  and  feeble.  Doubtless  they  were 
trumpets  that  gave  forth  clear  ringing  tones,  and  sent  a  mighty 
vibration  through  brick  and  mortar.  But  the  oratory  of  the 
Rev.  Amos  resembled  rather  a  Belgian  railway-horn  which 
shows  praiseworthy  intentions  inadequately  fulfilled.  He 
often  missed  the  right  note  both  in  public  and  private  exhorta¬ 
tion,  and  got  a  little  angry  in  consequence.  For  though  Amos 
thought  himself  strong,  he  did  not  feel  himself  strong.  Na¬ 
ture  had  given  him  the  opinion,  but  not  the  sensation.  With¬ 
out  that  opinion  he  would  probably  never  have  worn  cambric 


24 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


bands,  but  would  have  been  an  excellent  cabinet-maker  and 
deacon  of  an  Independent  church,  as  his  father  was  before 
him  (he  was  not  a  shoemaker,  as  Mr.  Pilgrim  had  reported). 
He  might  then  have  sniffed  long  and  loud  in  the  corner  of  his 
pew  in  Gun  Street  Chapel ;  he  might  have  indulged  in  halting 
rhetoric  at  prayer-meetings,  and  have  spoken  faulty  English  in 
private  life  ;  and  these  little  infirmities  would  not  have  pre¬ 
vented  him,  honest  faithful  man  that  he  was,  from  being  a 
shining  light  in  the  Dissenting  circle  of  Bridgeport.  A  tallow 
dip,  of  the  long-eight  description,  is  an  excellent  thing  in  the 
kitchen  candlestick,  and  Betty’s  nose  and  eye  are  not  sensitive 
to  the  difference  between  it  and  the  finest  wax;  it  is  only 
when  you  stick  it  in  the  silver  candlestick,  and  introduce  it 
into  the  drawing-room,  that  it  seems  plebeian,  dim,  and  in¬ 
effectual.  Alas  for  the  worthy  man  who,  like  that  candle,  gets 
himself  into  the  wrong  place  !  It  is  only  the  very  largest  souls 
who  will  be  able  to  appreciate  and  pity  him  —  who  will  dis¬ 
cern  and  love  sincerity  of  purpose  amid  all  the  bungling  feeble¬ 
ness  of  achievement. 

But  now  Amos  Barton  has  made  his  way  through  the  sleet 
as  far  as  the  College,  has  thrown  off  his  hat,  cape,  and  boa, 
and  is  reading,  in  the  dreary  stone-floored  dining-room,  a  por¬ 
tion  of  the  morning  service  to  the  inmates  seated  on  the 
benches  before  him.  Remember,  the  New  Poor-law  had  not 
yet  come  into  operation,  and  Mr.  Barton  was  not  acting  as 
paid  chaplain  of  the  Union,  but  as  the  pastor  who  had  the  cure 
of  all  souls  in  his  parish,  pauper  as  well  as  other.  After  the 
prayers  he  always  addressed  to  them  a  short  discourse  on 
some  subject  suggested  by  the  lesson  for  the  day,  striving  if  by 
this  means  some  edifying  matter  might  find  its  way  into  the 
pauper  mind  and  conscience  —  perhaps  a  task  as  trying  as  you 
could  well  imagine  to  the  faith  and  patience  of  any  honest 
clergyman.  For,  on  the  very  first  bench,  these  were  the  faces 
on  which  his  eye  had  to  rest,  watching  whether  there  was  any 
stirring  under  the  stagnant  surface. 

Right  in  front  of  him  —  probably  because  he  was  stone-deaf, 
and  it  was  deemed  more  edifying  to  hear  nothing  at  a  short 
distance  than  at  a  long  one  —  sat  “  Old  Maxum,”  as  he  was 


AMOS  BARTON. 


'  26 

familiarly  called,  his  real  patronymic  remaining  a  mystery  to 
most  persons.  A  fine  philological  sense  discerns  in  this  cog¬ 
nomen  an  indication  that  the  pauper  patriarch  had  once  been 
considered  pithy  and  sententious  in  his  speech ;  but  now  the 
weight  of  ninety-five  years  lay  heavy  on  his  tongue  as  well  as 
on  his  ears,  and  he  sat  before  the  clergyman  with  protruded 
chin,  and  munching  mouth,  and  eyes  that  seemed  to  look  at 
emptiness. 

Next  to  him  sat  Poll  Fodge  —  known  to  the  magistracy  of 
her  county  as  Mary  Higgins— -a  one-eyed  woman,  with  a 
scarred  and  seamy  face,  the  most  notorious  rebel  in  the  work- 
house,  said  to  have  once  thrown  her  broth  over  the  master’s 
coat-tails,  and  who,  in  spite  of  nature’s  apparent  safeguards 
against  that  contingency,  had  contributed  to  the  perpetuation 
of  the  Fodge  characteristics  in  the  person  of  a  small  boy,  who 
was  behaving  naughtily  on  one  of  the  back  benches.  Miss 
Fodge  fixed  her  one  sore  eye  on  Mr.  Barton  with  a  sort  of 
hardy  defiance. 

Beyond  this  member  of  the  softer  sex,  at  the  end  of  the 
bench,  sat  “  Silly  Jim,”  a  young  man  afflicted  with  hydro¬ 
cephalus,  who  rolled  his  head  from  side  to  side,  and  gazed 
at  the  point  of  his  nose.  These  were  the  supporters  of  Old 
Maxum  on  his  right. 

On  his  left  sat  Mr.  Fitchett,  a  tall  fellow,  who  had  once 
been  a  footman  in  the  Oldinport  family,  and  in  that  giddy  ele¬ 
vation  had  enunciated  a  contemptuous  opinion  of  boiled  beef, 
which  had  been  traditionally  handed  down  in  Shepperton  as 
the  direct  cause  of  his  ultimate  reduction  to  pauper  commons. 
His  calves  were  now  shrunken,  and  his  hair  was  gray  without 
the  aid  of  powder  ;  but  he  still  carried  his  chin  as  if  he  were 
conscious  of  a  stiff  cravat ;  he  set  his  dilapidated  hat  on  with 
a  knowing  inclination  towards  the  left  ear ;  and  when  he  was 
en  field-work,  he  carted  and  uncarted  the  manure  with  a  sort 
of  flunky  grace,  tne  ghost  of  that  jaunty  demeanor  with  which 
he  used  to  ush^i  m  my  lady’s  morning  visitors.  The  flunky 
nature  was  nownere  completely  subdued  but  in  his  stomach, 
and  he  still  divided  society  into  gentry,  gentry’s  flunkies,  and 
the  people  whu  provided  for  them.  A  clergyman  without  a 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


26 

flunky  was  an  anomaly,  belonging  to  neither  of  these  classes, 
Mr.  Fitchett  had  an  irrepressible  tendency  to  drowsiness 
under  spiritual  instruction,  and  in  the  recurrent  regularity 
with  which  he  dozed  off  until  he  nodded  and  awaked  himself, 
he  looked  not  unlike  a  piece  of  mechanism,  ingeniously  con¬ 
trived  for  measuring  the  length  of  Mr.  Barton’s  discourse. 

Perfectly  wide-awake,  on  the  contrary,  was  his  left-hand 
neighbor,  Mrs.  Brick,  one  of  those  hard  undying  old  women, 
to  whom  age  seems  to  have  given  a  network  of  wrinkles,  as  a 
coat  of  magic  armor  against  the  attacks  of  winters,  warm  or 
cold.  The  point  on  which  Mrs.  Brick  was  still  sensitive  — 
the  theme  on  which  you  might  possibly  excite  her  hope  and 
fear__was  snuff.  It  seemed  to  be  an  embalming  powder, 
helping  her  soul  to  do  the  office  of  salt. 

'And  now,  eke  out  an  audience  of  which  this  front  benchful 
was  a  sample,  with  a  certain  number  of  refractory  children, 
over  whom  Mr.  Spratt,  the  master  of  the  workhouse,  exer¬ 
cised  an  irate  surveillance,  and  I  think  you  will  admit  that  the 
university-taught  clergyman,  whose  office  it  is  to  bring  home 
the  gospel  to  a  handful  of  such  souls,  has  a  sufficiently  hard 
task.  For,  to  have  any  chance  of  success,  short  of  miraculous 
intervention,  he  must  bring  his  geographical,  chronological, 
exegetical  mind  pretty  nearly  to  the  pauper  point  of  view,  or 
of  no  view;  he  must  have  some  approximate  conception  of 
the  mode  in  which  the  doctrines  that  have  so  much  vitality  in 
the  plenum  of  his  own  brain  will  comport  themselves  in 
vacuo  - —  that  is  to  say,  in  a  brain  that  is  neither  geographical, 
chronological,  nor  exegetical.  It  is  a  flexible  imagination 
that  can  take  such  a  leap  as  that,  and  an  adroit  tongue  that 
can  adapt  its  speech  to  so  unfamiliar  a  position.  The  Rev, 
Amos  Barton  had  neither  that  flexible  imagination,  nor  that 
adroit  tongue.  He  talked  of  Israel  and  its  sins,  of  chosen 
vessels,  of  the  Paschal  lamb,  of  blood  as  a  medium  of  recon¬ 
ciliation  ;  and  he  strove  in  this  way  to  convey  religious  truth 
within  reach  of  the  Fodge  and  Fitchett  mind.  This  very 
morning,  the  first  lesson  was  the  twelfth  chapter  of  Exodus, 
and  Mr.  Barton’s  exposition  turned  on  unleavened  bread. 
Nothing  in  the  world  more  suited  to  the  simple  understanding 


AMOS  BARTON.  2’i 

than  instruction  through  familiar  types  and  symbols!  But 
there  is  always  this  danger  attending  it,  that  the  interest  or 
comprehension  of  your  hearers  may  stop  short  precisely  at 
the  point  where  your  spiritual  interpretation  begins.  And 
Mr.  Barton  this  morning  succeeded  in  carrying  the  pauper 
imagination  to  the  dough  tub,  but  unfortunately  was  not  able 
to  carry  it  upwards  from  that  well-known  object  to  the  un¬ 
known  truths  which  it  was  intended  to  shadow  forth. 

Alas  !  a  natural  incapacity  for  teaching,  finished  by  keep¬ 
ing  “ terms”  at  Cambridge,  where  there  are  able  mathema¬ 
ticians,  and  butter  is  sold  by  the  yard,  is  not  apparently  the 
medium  through  which  Christian  doctrine  will  distil  as  wel¬ 
come  dew  on  withered  souls. 

And  so,  while  the  sleet  outside  was  turning  to  unquestion¬ 
able  snow,  and  the  stony  dining-room  looked  darker  and 
drearier,  and  Mr.  Fitchett  was  nodding  his  lowest,  and  Mr. 
Spratt  was  boxing  the  boys’  ears  with  a  constant  rinforzando , 
as  he  felt  more  keenly  the  approach  of  dinner-time,  Mr. 
Barton  wound  up  his  exhortation  with  something  of  the 
February  chill  at  his  heart  as  well  as  his  feet.  Mr.  Fitchett, 
thoroughly  roused  now  the  instruction  was  at  an  end,  obse¬ 
quiously  and  gracefully  advanced  to  help  Mr.  Barton  in 
putting  on  his  cape,  while  Mrs.  Brick  rubbed  her  withered 
forefinger  round  and  round  her  little  shoe-shaped  snuff-box, 
vainly  seeking  for  the  fraction  of  a  pinch.  I  can’t  help 
thinking  that  if  Mr.  Barton  had  shaken  into  that  little  box  a 
small  portion  of  Scotch  high-dried,  he  might  have  produced 
something  more  like  an  amiable  emotion  in  Mrs.  Brick’s  mind 
than  anything  she  had  felt  under  his  morning’s  exposition  of 
the  unleavened  bread.  But  our  good  Amos  labored  under  a 
deficiency  of  small  tact  as  well  as  of  small  cash  ;  and  when  he 
observed  the  action  of  the  old  woman’s  forefinger,  he  said,  in 
his  brusque  way,  “So  your  snuff  is  all  gone,  eh  ?” 

Mrs.  Brick’s  eyes  twinkled  with  the  visionary  hope  that  the 
parson  might  be  intending  to  replenish  her  box,  at  least 
mediately,  through  the  present  of  a  small  copper. 

“  Ah,  well !  you  ’ll  soon  be  going  where  there  is  no  more 
snuff.  You ’ll  be  in  need  of  mercy  then,  You  must  remember 


28 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


that  you  may  have  to  seek  for  mercy  and  not  find  it,  just  as 
you  ’re  seeking  for  snuff.” 

At  the  first  sentence  of  this  admonition,  the  twinkle  sub¬ 
sided  from  Mrs.  Brick’s  eyes.  The  lid  of  her  box  went 
“  click  !  ”  and  her  heart  was  shut  up  at  the  same  moment. 

But  now  Mr.  Barton’s  attention  was  called  for  by  Mr. 
Spratt,  who  was  dragging  a  small  and  unwilling  boy  from  the 
rear.  Mr.  Spratt  was  a  small-featured,  small-statured  man, 
with  a  remarkable  power  of  language,  mitigated  by  hesitation, 
who  piqued  himself  on  expressing  unexceptionable  sentiments 
in  unexceptionable  language  on  all  occasions. 

“  Mr.  Barton,  sir  —  aw  —  aw  —  excuse  my  trespassing  on 
your  time  —  aw  —  to  beg  that  you  will  administer  a  rebuke  to 
this  boy  ;  he  is  —  aw  —  aw  —  most  inveterate  in  ill-behavior 
during  service-time.” 

The  inveterate  culprit  was  a  boy  of  seven,  vainly  contending 
against  a  cold  in  his  nose  by  feeble  sniffing.  But  no  sooner 
had  Mr.  Spratt  uttered  his  impeachment,  than  Miss  Fodge 
rushed  forward  and  placed  herself  between  Mr.  Barton  and  the 

accused. 

u  That ’s  my  child,  Muster  Barton,”  she  exclaimed,  further 
manifesting  her  maternal  instincts  by  applying  her  apron  to 
her  offspring’s  nose.  “  He ’s  al’ys  a-findin’  faut  wi’  him,  and 
a-poundin’  him  for  nothin’.  Let  him  gooan’  eat  his  roost  goose 
as  is  a-smellin’  up  in  our  noses  while  we  ’re  a-swallering  them 
greasy  broth,  an’  let  my  boy  alooan.” 

Mr.  Spratt’s  small  eyes  flashed,  and  he  was  in  danger  of 
uttering  sentiments  not  unexceptionable  before  the  clergyman  ; 
but  Mr.  Barton,  foreseeing  that  a  prolongation  of  this  episode 
would  not  be  to  edification,  said  “  Silence!”  in  his  severest 
tones. 

“  Let  me  hear  no  abuse.  Your  boy  is  not  likely  to  behave 
well,  if  you  set  him  the  example  of  being  saucy.”  Then  stoop* 
ing  down  to  Master  Fodge,  and  taking  him  by  the  shoulder, 
“  Do  you  like  being  beaten  ?  ” 

“  No-a.” 

“  Then  what  a  silly  boy  you  are  to  be  naughty.  If  you  were 
not  naughty,  you  would  n’t  be  beaten.  But  if  you  are  naughty, 


AMOS  BARTON.  29 

God  will  be  angry,  as  well  as  Mr.  Spratt ;  and  God  can  burn 
y°u  i°ie^cr.  That  will  be  worse  than  being  beaten.” 

Master  Fodge’s  countenance  was  neither  affirmative  nor  neg¬ 
ative  of  this  proposition. 

/‘But,”  continued  Mr.  Barton,  “if  you  will  be  a  good  boy,  God 
will  love  you,  and  you  will  grow  up  to  be  a  good  man.  Now, 
let  me  hear  next  Thursday  that  you  have  been  a  good  boy.” 

Master  Fodge-had  no  distinct  vision  of  the  benefit  that 
would  accrue  to  him  from  this  change  of  courses.  But  Mr. 
Baiton,  being  aware  that  Miss  Fodge  had  touched  on  a  delicate 
subject  in  alluding  to  the  roast  goose,  was  determined  to  wit¬ 
ness  no  more  polemics  between  her  and  Mr.  Spratt,  so,  saying 
good  morning  to  the  latter,  he  hastily  left  the  College. 

The  snow  was  falling  in  thicker  and  thicker  flakes,  and 
already  the  vicarage-garden  was  cloaked  in  white  as  he  passed 
though  the  gate.  Mrs.  Barton  heard  him  open  the  door,  and 
ran  out  of  the  sitting-room  to  meet  him. 

“I  bn  afraid  your  feet  are  very  wet,  dear.  What  a  terrible 

morning!  Let  me  take  your  hat.  Your  slippers  are  at  the 
fire.” 

Mr.  Barton  was  feeling  a  little  cold  and  cross.  It  is  diffi¬ 
cult,  when  you  have  been  doing  disagreeable  duties,  without 
praise,  on  a  snowy  day,  to  attend  to  the  very  minor  morals. 
So  he  showed  no  recognition  of  Milly’s  attentions,  but  simply 
said,  “ Fetch  me  my  dressing-gown,  will  you?” 

It  is  down,  dear.  I  thought  you  would  n’t  go  into  the 
study,  because  you  said  you  would  letter  and  number  the  books 
for  the  Lending  Library.  Patty  and  I  have  been  covering 
them,  and  they  are  all  ready  in  the  sitting-room.” 

“  I  can’t  do  those  this  morning,”  said  Mr.  Barton,  as  he 
took  off  his  boots  and  put  his  feet  into  the  slippers  Milly  had 
brought  him  j  “you  must  put  them  away  into  the  parlor.” 

The  sitting  room  was  also  the  day  nursery  and  schoolroom; 
and  while  Mamma’s  back  was  turned,  Dickey,  the  second  boy, 
had  insisted  on  superseding  Chubby  in  the  guir  ^ice  of  a  head¬ 
less  horse,  of  the  red-wafered  species,  which  she  was  drawing 
round  the  room,  so  that  when  Papa  opened  the  door  Chubby 
Was  giving  tongue  energetically. 


30 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


“  Milly,  some  of  these  children  must  go  away.  I  want  to 
be  quiet.” 

“Yes,  dear.  Hush,  Chubby;  go  with  Patty,  and  see  what 
Nanny  is  getting  for  our  dinner.  Now,  Fred  and  Sophy  and 
Dickey,  help  me  to  carry  these  books  into  the  parlor.  There 
are  three  for  Dickey.  Carry  them  steadily.” 

Papa  meanwhile  settled  himself  in  his  easy-chair,  and  took 
up  a  work  on  Episcopacy,  which  he  had  from  the  Clerical  Book 
Society ;  thinking  he  would  finish  it  and  return  it  this  after¬ 
noon,  as  he  was  going  to  the  Clerical  Meeting  at  Milby  Vicar¬ 
age,  where  the  Book  Society  had  its  headquarters. 

The  Clerical  Meetings  and  Book  Society,  which  had  been 
founded  some  eight  or  ten  months,  had  had  a  noticeable  effect 
on  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton.  When  he  first  came  to  Shepperton 
he  was  simply  an  evangelical  clergyman,  whose  Christian  ex¬ 
periences  had  commenced  under  the  teaching  of  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Johns,  of  Gun  Street  Chapel,  and  had  been  consolidated  at 
Cambridge  under  the  influence  of  Mr.  Simeon.  John  Newton 
and  Thomas  Scott  were  his  doctrinal  ideals ;  he  would  have  ta¬ 
ken  in  the  “  Christian  Observer  ”  and  the  “  Record,”  if  he  could 
have  afforded  it;  his  anecdotes  were  chiefly  of  the  pious-jocose 
kind,  current  in  Dissenting  circles ;  and  he  thought  an  Episco¬ 
palian  Establishment  unobjectionable. 

But  by  this  time  the  effect  of  the  Tractarian  agitation  was 
beginning  to  be  felt  in  backward  provincial  regions,  and  the 
Tractarian  satire  on  the  Low-Church  party  was  beginning  to 
tell  even  on  those  who  disavowed  or  resisted  Tractarian  doc¬ 
trines.  The  vibration  of  an  intellectual  movement  was  felt 
from  the  golden  head  to  the  miry  toes  of  the  Establishment; 
and  so  it  came  to  pass  that,  in  the  district  round  Milby,  the 
market-town  close  to  Shepperton,  the  clergy  had  agreed  to  have 
a  clerical  meeting  every  month  wherein  they  would  exercise 
their  intellects  by  discussing  theological  and  ecclesiastical 
questions,  and  cement  their  brotherly  love  by  discussing 
a  good  dinner.  A  Book  Society  naturally  suggested  itself  as 
an  adjunct  of  this  agreeable  plan  ;  and  thus,  you  perceive, 
there  was  provision  made  for  ample  friction  of  the  clerical 
mind. 


AMOS  BARTON. 


31 


Now?  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton  was  one  of  those  men  who  have 
a  decided  will  and  opinion  of  their  own ;  he  held  himself  bolt 
o.piight>  and  had  no  self-distrust.  He  would  march  very  de¬ 
terminedly  along  the  road  he  thought  best ;  but  then  it  was 
wonderfully  easy  to  convince  him  which  was  the  best  road. 
And  so  a  very  little  unwonted  reading  and  unwonted  discus¬ 
sion  made  him  see  that  an  Episcopalian  Establishment  was 
much  more  than  unobjectionable,  and  on  many  other  points  he 
began  to  feel  that  he  held  opinions  a  little  too  far-sighted  and 
profound  to  be  crudely  and  suddenly  communicated  to  ordinary 
minds.  He  was  like  an  onion  that  has  been  rubbed  with 
spices ;  the  strong  original  odor  was  blended  with  something 
new  and  foreign.  The  Low-Church  onion  still  offended  refined 
High-Church  nostrils,  and  the  new  spice  was  unwelcome  to 
the  palate  of  the  genuine  onion-eater. 

We  will  not  accompany  him  to  the  Clerical  Meeting  to-day, 
because  we  shall  probably  want  to  go  thither  some  day  when 
he  will  be  absent.  And  just  now  X  am  bent  on  introducing 
you  to  Mr.  Bridmain  and  the  Countess  Czerlaski,  with  whom 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barton  are  invited  to  dine  to-morrow. 


CHAPTER  ILL 

Outside,  the  moon  is  shedding  its  cold  light  on  the  cold 
snow,  and  the  white-bearded  fir-trees  round  Camp  Villa  are 
casting  a  blue  shadow  across  the  white  ground,  while  the  Rev. 
Amos  Barton  and  his  wife  are  audibly  crushing  the  crisp  snow 
beneath  their  feet,  as,  about  seven  o’clock  on  Friday  evening, 
they  approach  the  door  of  the  above-named  desirable  country 
residence,  containing  dining,  breakfast,  and  drawing  rooms, 
&c.,  situated  only  half  a  mile  from  the  market-town  of  Milby. 

Inside,  there  is  a  bright  fire  in  the  drawing-room,  casting  a 
pleasant  but  uncertain  light  on  the  delicate  silk  dress  of  a 


32 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


lady  who  is  reclining  behind  a  screen  in  the  corner  of  the  sofa, 
and  allowing  you  to  discern  that  the  hair  of  the  gentleman 
who  is  seated  in  the  arm-chair  opposite,  with  a  newspaper 
over  his  knees,  is  becoming  decidedly  gray.  A  little  “  King 
Charles,”  with  a  crimson  ribbon  round  his  neck,  who  has  been 
lying  curled  up  in  the  very  middle  of  the  hearth-rug,  has  just 
discovered  that  that  zone  is  too  hot  for  him,  and  is  jumping 
on  the  sofa,  evidently  with  the  intention  of  accommodating 
his  person  on  the  silk  gown.  On  the  table  there  are  two  wax- 
candles,  which  will  be  lighted  as  soon  as  the  expected  knock 
is  heard  at  the  door. 

The  knock  is  heard,  the  candles  are  lighted,  and  presently 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barton  are  ushered  in  —  Mr.  Barton  erect  and 
clerical,  in  a  faultless  tie  and  shining  cranium ;  Mrs.  Barton 
graceful  in  a  newly  turned  black  silk. 

“  Now  this  is  charming  of  you,”  said  the  Countess  Czerlaski, 
advancing  to  meet  them,  and  embracing  Milly  with  careful 
elegance.  “  I  am  really  ashamed  of  my  selfishness  in  asking 
my  friends  to  come  and  see  me  in  this  frightful  weather.” 
Then,  giving  her  hand  to  Amos,  “  And  you,  Mr.  Barton,  whose 
time  is  so  precious  !  But  I  am  doing  a  good  deed  in  drawing 
you  away  from  your  labors.  I  have  a  plot  to  prevent  you 
from  martyrizing  yourself.” 

While  this  greeting  was  going  forward,  Mr.  Bridmain,  and 
Jet  the  spaniel,  looked  on  with  the  air  of  actors  who  had  no 
idea  of  by-play.  Mr.  Bridmain,  a  stiff  and  rather  thick-set 
man,  gave  his  welcome  with  a  labored  cordiality.  It  was 
astonishing  how  very  little  he  resembled  his  beautiful  sister. 

For  the  Countess  Czerlaski  was  undeniably  beautiful.  As 
she  seated  herself  by  Mrs.  Barton  on  the  sofa,  Milly’s  eyes, 
indeed,  rested  —  must  it  be  confessed  ?  —  chiefly  on  the  details 
of  the  tasteful  dress,  the  rich  silk  of  a  pinkish  lilac  hue  (the 
Countess  always  wore  delicate  colors  in  an  evening),  the  black 
lace  pelerine,  and  the  black  lace  veil  falling  at  the  back  of  the 
small  closely  braided  head.  For  Milly  had  one  weakness  — 
don’t  love  her  any  the  less  for  it,  it  was  a  pretty  woman’s 
weakness  —  she  was  fond  of  dress ;  and  often,  when  she  was 
making  up  her  own  economical  millinery,  she  had  romantic 


AMOS  BARTON. 


33 


visions  how  nice  it  would  "be  to  put  on  really  handsome  stylish 
tilings  —  to  have  very  stiff  balloon  sleeves,  for  example,  with- 
out  which  a  woman’s  dress  was  nought  in  those  days.  You 
and  I,  too,  reader,  have  our  weakness,  have  we  not  ?  which 
makes  us  think  foolish  things  now  and  then.  Perhaps  it  may 
lie  in  an  excessive  admiration  for  small  hands  and  feet,  a  tall 
lithe  figure,  large  dark  eyes,  and  dark  silken  braided  hair.  All 
these  the  Countess  possessed,  and  she  had,  moreover,  a  deli¬ 
cately  formed  nose,  the  least  bit  curved,  and  a  clear  brunette 
complexion.  Her  mouth,  it  must  be  admitted,  receded  too 
much  from  her  nose  and  chin,  and  to  a  prophetic  eye  threatened 
“  nut-crackers  ”  in  advanced  age.  But  by  the  light  of  fire  and 
wax-candles  that  age  seemed  very  far  off  indeed,  and  you 
would  have  said  that  the  Countess  was  not  more  than  thirty. 

Look  at  the  two  women  on  the  sofa  together !  The  large, 
fair,  mild-eyed  Milly  is  timid  even  in  friendship :  it  is  not 
easy  to  her  to  speak  of  the  affection  of  which  her  heart  is  full. 
The  lithe,  dark,  thin-lipped  Countess  is  racking  her  small  brain 
for  caressing  words  and  charming  exaggerations. 

“  And  how  are  all  the  cherubs  at  home  ?”  said  the  Countess, 
stooping  to  pick  up  Jet,  and  without  waiting  for  an  answer. 
“  I  have  been  kept  in-doors  by  a  cold  ever  since  Sunday,  or  I 
should  not  have  rested  without  seeing  you.  What  have  you 
done  with  those  wretched  singers,  Mr.  Barton  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  we  have  got  a  new  choir  together,  which  will  go  on 
very  well  with  a  little  practice.  I  was  quite  determined  that 
the  old  set  of  singers  should  be  dismissed.  I  had  given  orders 
that  they  should  not  sing  the  wedding  psalm,  as  they  call  it, 
again,  to  make  a  new-married  couple  look  ridiculous,  and  they 
sang  it  in  defiance  of  me.  I  could  put  them  into  the  Ecclesi¬ 
astical  Court,  if  I  chose  for  to  do  so,  for  lifting  up  their  voices 
in  church  in  opposition  to  the  clergyman.” 

“And  a  most  wholesome  discipline  that  would  be,”  said 
the  Countess;  “indeed,  you  are  too  patient  and  forbearing, 
Mr.  Barton.  For  my  part,  I  lose  my  temper  when  I  see 
how  far  you  are  from  being  appreciated  in  that  miserable 
Shepperton.” 

If,  as  is  probable,  Mr.  Barton  felt  at  a  loss  what  to  say  in 

VOL.  IV.  3 


34 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE 


reply  to  the  insinuated  compliment,  it  was  a  relief  to  him  that 
dinner  was  announced  just  then,  and  that  he  had  to  offer  his 
arm  to  the  Countess. 

As  Mr.  Bridmain  was  leading  Mrs.  Barton  to  the  dining* 
room,  he  observed,  “  The  weather  is  very  severe.” 

“  Very,  indeed,”  said  Milly. 

Mr.  Bridmain  studied  conversation  as  an  art.  To  ladies  he 
spoke  of  the  weather,  and  was  accustomed  to  consider  it  under 
three  points  of  view :  as  a  question  of  climate  in  general,  com¬ 
paring  England  with  other  countries  in  this  respect ;  as  a  per¬ 
sonal  question,  inquiring  how  it  affected  his  lady  interlocutor 
in  particular ;  and  as  a  question  of  probabilities,  discussing 
whether  there  would  be  a  change  or  a  continuance  of  the  pres¬ 
ent  atmospheric  conditions.  To  gentlemen  he  talked  politics, 
and  he  read  two  daily  papers  expressly  to  qualify  himself  for 
this  function.  Mr.  Barton  thought  him  a  man  of  considerable 
political  information,  but  not  of  lively  parts. 

“  And  so  you  are  always  to  hold  your  Clerical  Meetings  at 
Mr.  Ely’s  ?”  said  the  Countess,  between  her  spoonfuls  of  soup. 
(The  soup  was  a  little  over-spiced.  Mrs.  Short  of  Camp  Villa, 
•who  was  in  the  habit  of  letting  her  best  apartments,  gave  only 
moderate  wages  to  her  cook.) 

“Yes,”  said  Mr.  Barton;  “Milby  is  a  central  place,  and 
there  are  many  conveniences  in  having  only  one  point  of 
meeting.” 

“Well,”  continued  the  Countess,  “every  one  seems  to  agree 
in  giving  the  precedence  to  Mr.  Ely.  For  my  part,  I  cannot 
admire  him.  His  preaching  is  too  cold  for  me.  It  has  no 
fervor  —  no  heart.  I  often  say  to  my  brother,  it  is  a  great 
comfort  to  me  that  Shepperton  Church  is  not  too  far  off  for  us 
to  go  to  ;  don’t  I,  Edmund  ?  ” 

“Yes,”  answered  Mr.  Bridmain  ;  “they  show  us  into  such  a 
bad  pew  at  Milby  —  just  where  there  is  a  draught  from  that 
door.  I  caught  a  stiff  neck  the  first  time  I  went  there.” 

“  Oh,  it  is  the  cold  in  the  pulpit  that  affects  me,  not  the 
cold  in  the  pew.  I  was  writing  to  my  friend  Lady  Porter  this 
morning,  and  telling  her  all  about  my  feelings.  She  and  I 
think  alike  on  such  matters.  She  is  most  anxious  that  when 


AMOS  BARTON. 


3b 


Sir  William  has  an  opportunity  of  giving  away  the  living  at 
their  place,  Dippley,  they  should  have  a  thoroughly  zealous, 
clever  man,  there.  I  have  been  describing  a  certain  friend  of 
mine  to  her,  who,  I  think,  would  be  just  to  her  mind.  And 
there  is  such  a  pretty  rectory,  Milly ;  should  n’t  I  like  to  see 
you  the  mistress  of  it  ?  ” 

Milly  smiled  and  blushed  slightly.  The  Rev.  Amos  blushed 
very  red,  and  gave  a  little  embarrassed  laugh  —  he  could  rarely 
keep  his  muscles  within  the  limits  of  a  smile. 

At  this  moment  John,  the  man-servant,  approached  Mrs. 
Barton  with  a  gravy-tureen,  and  also  with  a  slight  odor  of  the 
stable,  which  usually  adhered  to  him  throughout  his  in-door 
functions.  John  was  rather  nervous ;  and  the  Countess,  hap¬ 
pening  to  speak  to  him  at  this  inopportune  moment,  the  tureen 
slipped  and  emptied  itself  on  Mrs.  Barton’s  newly  turned  black 
silk. 

“  Oh,  horror !  Tell  Alice  to  come  directly  and  rub  Mrs. 
Barton’s  dress,”  said  the  Countess  to  the  trembling  John, 
carefully  abstaining  from  approaching  the  gravy-sprinkled 
spot  on  the  floor  with  her  own  lilac  silk.  But  Mr.  Bridmain, 
who  had  a  strictly  private  interest  in  silks,  good-naturedly 
jumped  up  and  applied  his  napkin  at  once  to  Mrs.  Barton’s 
gown. 

Milly  felt  a  little  inward  anguish,  but  no  ill-temper,  and 
tried  to  make  light  of  the  matter  for  the  sake  of  John  as  well 
as  others.  The  Countess  felt  inwardly  thankful  that  her  own 
delicate  silk  had  escaped,  but  threw  out  lavish  interjections  of 
distress  and  indignation. 

“Dear  saint  that  you  are,”  she  said,  when  Milly  laughed, 
and  suggested  that,  as  her  silk  was  not  very  glossy  to  begin 
with,  the  dim  patch  would  not  be  much  seen  ;  “  you  don’t 
mind  about  these  things,  I  know.  Just  the  same  sort  of  thing 
happened  to  me  at  the  Brincess  Wengstein’s  one  day,  on  a  pink 
satin.  I  was  in  an  agony.  But  you  are  so  indifferent  to  dress ; 
and  well  you  may  be.  It  is  you  who  make  dress  pretty,  and 
not  dress  that  makes  you  pretty.” 

Alice,  the  buxom  lady’s-maid,  wearing  a  much  better  dress 
than  Mrs.  Barton’s,  now  appeared  to  take  Mr.  Bridmain’s  place 


36 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


in  retrieving  the  mischief,  and  after  a  great  amount  of  supple 
mentary  rubbing,  composure  was  restored,  and  the  business  oi 
dining  was  continued. 

When  J ohn  was  recounting  his  accident  to  the  cook  in  the 
kitchen,  he  observed,  “  Mrs.  Barton’s  a  hamable  woman ;  I ’d 
a  deal  sooner  ha’  throwed  the  gravy  o’er  the  Countess’s  fine 
gownd.  But  laws  !  what  tantrums  she ’d  ha’  been  in  arter  the 
visitors  was  gone.” 

“ You’d  a  deal  sooner  not  ha’  throwed  it  down  at  all,  I 
should  think,”  responded  the  unsympathetic  cook,  to  whom 
John  did  not  make  love.  “  Who  d’  you  think ’s  to  make  gravy 
anuff,  if  you  ’re  to  baste  people’s  gownds  wi’  it  ?  ” 

“  Well,”  suggested  John,  humbly,  “you  should  wet  the  bot¬ 
tom  of  the  duree  a  bit,  to  hold  it  from  slippin’.” 

“  Wet  your  granny  !  ”  returned  the  cook  ;  a  retort  which  she 
probably  regarded  in  the  light  of  a  reductio  ad  absurdum,  and 
which  in  fact  reduced  John  to  silence. 

Later  on  in  the  evening,  while  John  was  removing  the  tea- 
things  from  the  drawing-room,  and  brushing  the  crumbs  from 
the  table-cloth  with  an  accompanying  hiss,  such  as  he  was 
wont  to  encourage  himself  with  in  rubbing  down  Mr.  Brid- 
main’s  horse,  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton  drew  from  his  pocket  a 
thin  green-covered  pamphlet,  and,  presenting  it  to  the  Countess, 
said  — 

“You  were  pleased,  I  think,  with  my  sermon  on  Christmas 
Day.  It  has  been  printed  in  ‘  The  Pulpit,’  and  I  thought  you 
might  like  a  copy.” 

“  That  indeed  I  shall.  I  shall  quite  value  the  opportunity 
of  reading  that  sermon.  There  was  such  depth  in  it !  —  such 
argument !  It  was  not  a  sermon  to  be  heard  only  once.  I  am 
delighted  that  it  should  become  generally  known,  as  it  will  be, 
now  it  is  printed  in  ‘  The  Pulpit.’  ” 

a Yes,”  said  Milly,  innocently,  “I  was  so  pleased  with  the 
editor’s  letter.”  And  she  drew  out  her  little  pocket-book, 
where  she  carefully  treasured  the  editorial  autograph,  while 
Mr.  Barton  laughed  and  blushed,  and  said,  “Nonsense,  Milly!  ” 

“You  see,”  she  said,  giving  the  letter  to  the  Countess,  “I 
am  very  proud  of  the  praise  my  husband  gets.” 


AMOS  BARTON. 


'61 


The  sermon  in  question,  by  the  bye,  was  an  extremely  argu¬ 
mentative  one  on  the  Incarnation ;  which,  as  it  was  preached 
to  a  congregation  not  one  of  whom  had  any  doubt  of  that  doc¬ 
trine,  and  to  whom  the  Socinians  therein  confuted  were  as 
unknown  as  the  Arimaspians,  was  exceedingly  well  adapted 
to  trouble  and  confuse  the  Sheppertonian  mind. 

“  Ah,”  said  the  Countess,  returning  the  editor’s  letter,  “  he 
may  well  say  he  will  be  glad  of  other  sermons  from  the  same 
source.  But  I  would  rather  you  should  publish  your  sermons 
in  an  independent  volume,  Mr.  Barton ;  it  would  be  so  desir¬ 
able  to  have  them  in  that  shape.  For  instance,  I  could  send  a 
copy  to  the  Dean  of  Radborough.  And  there  is  Lord  Blarney 
whom  I  knew  before  he  was  Chancellor.  I  was  a  special  favor¬ 
ite  of  his,  and  you  can’t  think  what  sweet  things  he  used  to 
say  to  me.  I  shall  not  resist  the  temptation  to  write  to  him 
one  of  these  days  sans  fa$on,  and  tell  him  how  he  ought  to 
dispose  of  the  next  vacant  living  in  his  gift.” 

Whether  Jet  the  spaniel,  being  a  much  more  knowing  dog 
than  was  suspected,  wished  to  express  his  disapproval  of  the 
Countess’s  last  speech,  as  not  accordant  with  his  ideas  of  wis¬ 
dom  and  veracity,  I  cannot  say ;  but  at  this  moment  he  jumped 
off  her  lap,  and  turning  his  back  upon  her,  placed  one  paw  on 
the  fender,  and  held  the  other  up  to  warm,  as  if  affecting  to 
abstract  himself  from  the  current  of  conversation. 

But  now  Mr.  Bridmain  brought  out  the  chess-board,  and  Mr. 
Barton  accepted  his  challenge  to  play  a  game,  with  immense 
satisfaction.  The  Rev.  Amos  was  very  fond  of  chess,  as  most 
people  are  who  can  continue  through  many  years  to  create 
interesting  vicissitudes  in  the  game,  by  taking  long-meditated 
moves  with  their  knights,  and  subsequently  discovering  that 
they  have  thereby  exposed  their  queen. 

Chess  is  a  silent  game ;  and  the  Countess’s  chat  with  Milly 
is  in  quite  an  under-tone — probably  relating  to  women’s  mat¬ 
ters  that  it  would  be  impertinent  for  us  to  listen  to  ;  so  we 
will  leave  Camp  Villa,  and  proceed  to  Milby  Vicarage,  where 
Mr.  Farquhar  has  sat  out  two  other  guests  with  whom  he  has 
been  dining  at  Mr.  Ely’s,  and  is  now  rather  wearying  that 
reverend  gentleman  by  his  protracted  small-talk. 


38' 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


Mr.  Ely  was  a  tall,  dark-haired,  distinguished-looking  man 
of  three-and-thirty.  By  the  laity  of  Milby  and  its  neighbor¬ 
hood  he  was  regarded  as  a  man  of  quite  remarkable  powers 
and  learning,  who  must  make  a  considerable  sensation  in  Lon¬ 
don  pulpits  and  drawing-rooms  on  his  occasional  visits  to  the 
metropolis  ;  and  by  his  brother  clergy  he  was  regarded  as  a 
discreet  and  agreeable  fellow.  Mr.  Ely  never  got  into  a  warm 
discussion;  he  suggested  what  might  be  thought,  but  rarely 
said  what  he  thought  himself ;  he  never  let  either  men  or 
women  see  that  he  was  laughing  at  them,  and  he  never  gave  any 
one  an  opportunity  of  laughing  at  him.  In  one  thing  only  he 
was  injudicious.  He  parted  his  dark  wavy  hair  down  the 
middle ;  and  as  his  head  was  rather  flat  than  otherwise,  that 
style  of  coiffure  was  not  advantageous  to  him. 

Mr.  Earquhar,  though  not  a  parishioner  of  Mr.  Ely’s,  wa8 
one  of  his  warmest  admirers,  and  thought  he  would  make  an 
unexceptionable  son-in-law,  in  spite  of  his  being  of  no  particu¬ 
lar  “  family.”  Mr.  Farquhar  was  susceptible  on  the  point  of 
“  blood  ”  —  his  own  circulating  fluid,  which  animated  a  short 
and  somewhat  flabby  person,  being,  he  considered,  of  very 
superior  quality. 

“  By  the  bye,”  he  said,  with  a  certain  pomposity  counteracted 
by  a  lisp,  “what  an  ath  Barton  makth  of  himthelf,  about  that 
Bridmain  and  the  Counteth,  ath  she  callth  herthelf.  After 
you  were  gone  the  other  evening,  Mithith  Farquhar  wath 
telling  him  the  general  opinion  about  them  in  the  neighbor¬ 
hood,  and  he  got  quite  red  and  angry.  Bleth  your  thoul,  he 
believeth  the  whole  thtory  about  her  Polish  huthband  and  hith 
wonderful  etlicapeth  ;  and  ath  for  her  —  why,  he  thinkth  her 
perfection,  a  woman  of  motht  refined  feelingth,  and  no  end  of 
thtuff.” 

Mr.  Ely  smiled.  “  Some  people  would  say  our  friend  Bar¬ 
ton  was  not  the  best  judge  of  refinement.  Perhaps  the  lady 
hatters  him  a  little,  and  we  men  are  susceptible.  She  goes 
to  Shepperton  Church  every  Sunday  —  drawn  there,  let  us 
suppose,  by  Mr.  Barton’s  eloquence.” 

“  Pthaw,”  said  Mr.  Farquhar :  “  now,  to  my  mind,  you  have 
only  to  look  at  that  woman  to  thee  what  she  ith  —  throwing 


AMOS  BARTON. 


her  eyth  about  when  she  comtli  into  church,  and  drething  in  a 
way  to  attract  attention.  I  should  thay,  she’th  tired  of  her 
brother  Bridmain  and  looking  out  for  another  brother  with  a 
thtronger  family  likeneth.  Mithith  Farquhar  ith  very  fond  of 
Mithith  Barton,  and  ith  quite  dithtrethed  that  she  should 
athothiate  with  thuch  a  woman,  tho  she  attacked  him  on 
the  thubject  purpothly.  But  I  tell  her  it’th  of  no  uthe, 
with  a  pig-headed  fellow  like  him.  Barton  ’th  well-meaning 
enough,  but  tho  contheited.  I ’ve  left  off  giving  him  my 
advithe.” 

Mr.  Ely  smiled  inwardly  and  said  to  himself,  “What  a 
punishment  !  ”  But  to  Mr.  Farquhar  he  said,  “  Barton  might 
be  more  judicious,  it  must  be  confessed.”  He  was  getting 
tired,  and  did  not  want  to  develop  the  subject. 

“  Why,  nobody  vithit-th  them  but  the  Bartonth,”  continued 
Mr.  Farquhar,  “and  why  should  thuch  people  come  here, 
unleth  they  had  particular  reathonth  for  preferring  a  neigh¬ 
borhood  where  they  are  not  known  ?  Pooh  !  it  lookth  bad  on 
the  very  fathe  of  it.  You  called  on  them,  now ;  how  did  you 
find  them  ?  ” 

“  Oh  !  —  Mr.  Bridmain  strikes  me  as  a  common  sort  of  man, 
who  is  making  an  effort  to  seem  wise  and  well-bred.  He 
comes  down  on  one  tremendously  with  political  information, 
and  seems  knowing  about  the  king  of  the  French.  The 
Countess  is  certainly  a  handsome  woman,  but  she  puts  on  the 
grand  air  a  little  too  powerfully.  Woodcock  was  immensely 
taken  with  her,  and  insisted  on  his  wife’s  calling  on  her 
and  asking  her  to  dinner  ;  but  I  think  Mrs.  Woodcock 
turned  restive  after  the  first  visit,  and  would  n’t  invite  her 
again.” 

“Ha.  ha!  Woodcock  hath  alwayth  a  thoft  place  in  hith 
heart  for  a  pretty  fathe.  It  ’-th  odd  how  he  came  to  marry 
that  plain  woman,  and  no  fortune  either.” 

“Mysteries  of  the  tender  passion,”  said  Mr.  Ely.  “Iam 
not  initiated  yet,  you  know.” 

Here  Mr.  Farquhar’s  carriage  was  announced,  and  as  we 
have  not  found  his  conversation  particularly  brilliant  under 
the  stimulus  of  Mr.  Ely’s  exceptional  presence,  we  will  not 


40 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

accompany  him  home  to  the  less  exciting  atmosphere  of 
domestic  life. 

Mr.  Ely  threw  himself  with  a  sense  of  relief  into  his  easiest 
chair,  set  his  feet  on  the  hobs,  and  in  this  attitude  of  bachelor 
enjoyment  began  to  read  Bishop  Jebb’s  Memoirs. 


♦ 


CHAPTER  IV. 

I  am  by  no  means  sure  that  if  the  good  people  of  Milby  had 
known  the  truth  about  the  Countess  Czerlaski,  they  would  not 
have  been  considerably  disappointed  to  find  that  it  was  very 
far  from  being  as  bad  as  they  imagined.  Nice  distinctions 
are  troublesome.  It  is  so  much  easier  to  say  that  a  thing  is 
black,  than  to  discriminate  the  particular  shade  of  brown, 
blue,  or  green,  to  which  it  really  belongs.  It  is  so  much 
easier  to  make  up  your  mind  that  your  neighbor  is  good  for 
nothing,  than  to  enter  into  all  the  circumstances  that  would 
oblige  you  to  modify  that  opinion. 

Besides,  think  of  all  the  virtuous  declamation,  all  the  pene¬ 
trating  observation,  which  had  been  built  up  entirely  on  the 
fundamental  position  that  the  Countess  was  a  very  objection¬ 
able  person  indeed,  and  which  would  be  utterly  overturned 
and  nullified  by  the  destruction  of  that  premiss.  Mrs.  Phipps, 
the  banker’s  wife,  and  Mrs.  Landor,  the  attorney’s  wife,  had 
invested  part  of  their  reputation  for  acuteness  in  the  suppo¬ 
sition  that  Mr.  Bridmain  was  not  the  Countess’s  brother. 
Moreover,  Miss  Phipps  was  conscious  that  if  the  Countess  was 
not  a  disreputable  person,  she,  Miss  Phipps,  had  no  compen¬ 
sating  superiority  in  virtue  to  set  against  the  other  lady’s 
manifest  superiority  in  personal  charms.  Miss  Phipps’s 
stumpy  figure  and  unsuccessful  attire,  instead  of  looking 
down  from  a  mount  of  virtue  with  an  aureole  round  its  head, 
would  then  be  seen  on  the  same  level  and  in  the  same  light  as 


AMOS  BARTON. 


41 


jhe  Countess  Czerlaski’s  Diana-like  form  and  well- chosen 
drapery.  Miss  Phipps,  for  her  part,  did  n’t  like  dressing  for 
effect  —  she  had  always  avoided  that  style  of  appearance 
which  was  calculated  to  create  a  sensation. 

Then  what  amusing  innuendoes  of  the  Milby  gentlemen 
over  their  wine  would  have  been  entirely  frustrated  and  re¬ 
duced  to  nought,  if  you  had  told  them  that  the  Countess  had 
really  been  guilty  of  no  misdemeanors  which  demanded  her 
exclusion  from  strictly  respectable  society ;  that  her  husband 
had  been  the  veritable  Count  Czerlaski,  who  had  had  won¬ 
derful  escapes,  as  she  said,  and  who,  as  she  did  not  say,  but  as 
was  said  in  certain  circulars  once  folded  by  her  fair  hands, 
had  subsequently  given  dancing  lessons  in  the  metropolis ; 
that  Mr.  Bridmain  was  neither  more  nor  less  than  her  half- 
brother,  who,  by  unimpeached  integrity  and  industry,  had  won 
a  partnership  in  a  silk-manufactory,  and  thereby  a  moderate 
fortune,  that  enabled  him  to  retire,  as  you  see,  to  study  poli 
tics,  the  weather,  and  the  art  of  conversation  at  his  leisure. 
Mr.  Bridmain,  in  fact,  quadragenarian  bachelor  as  he  was, 
felt  extremely  well  pleased  to  receive  his  sister  in  her  widow¬ 
hood,  and  to  shine  in  the  reflected  light  of  her  beauty  and 
title.  Every  man  who  is  not  a  monster,  a  mathematician,  or 
a  mad  philosopher,  is  the  slave  of  some  woman  or  other.  Mr. 
Bridmain  had  put  his  neck  under  the  yoke  of  his  handsome 
sister,  and  though  his  soul  was  a  very  little  one  —  of  the 
smallest  description  indeed  —  he  would  not  have  ventured  to 
sail  it  his  own.  He  might  be  slightly  recalcitrant  now  and 
then,  as  is  the  habit  of  long-eared  pachyderms,  under  the 
thong  of  the  fair  Countess’s  tongue ;  but  there  seemed 
little  probability  that  he  would  ever  get  his  neck  loose. 
Still,  a  bachelor’s  heart  is  an  outlying  fortress  that  some 
fair  enemy  may  any  day  take  either  by  storm  or  stratagem  ; 
and  there  was  always  the  possibility  that  Mr.  Bridmain’s 
first  nuptials  might  occur  before  the  Countess  was  quite 
sure  of  her  second.  As  it  was,  however,  he  submitted  to 
all  his  sister’s  caprices,  never  grumbled  because  her  dress 
and  her  maid  formed  a  considerable  item  beyond  her  own 
little  income  of  sixty  pounds  per  annum,  and  consented  to 


42 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


lead  with  her  a  migratory  life,  as  personages  on  the  debatable 
ground  between  aristocracy  and  commonalty,  instead  of  set¬ 
tling  in  some  spot  where  his  five  hundred  a-year  might  have 
won  him  the  definite  dignity  of  a  parochial  magnate. 

The  Countess  had  her  views  in  choosing  a  quiet  provincial 
place  like  Milby.  After  three  years  of  widowhood,  she  had 
brought  her  feelings  to  contemplate  giving  a  successor  to  her 
lamented  Czerlaski,  whose  fine  whiskers,  fine  air,  and  romantic 
fortunes  had  won  her  heart  ten  years  ago,  when,  as  pretty 
Caroline  Bridmain,  in  the  full  bloom  of  five-and-twenty,  she 
was  governess  to  Lady  Porter’s  daughters,  whom  he  initiated 
into  the  mysteries  of  the  pas  de  basque ,  and  the  Lancers’ 
quadrilles.  She  had  had  seven  years  of  sufficiently  happy 
matrimony  with  Czerlaski,  who  had  taken  her  to  Paris  and 
Germany,  and  introduced  her  there  to  many  of  his  old  friends 
with  large  titles  and  small  fortunes.  So  that  the  fair  Caroline 
had  had  considerable  experience  of  life,  and  had  gathered  there¬ 
from,  not,  indeed,  any  very  ripe  and  comprehensive  wisdom, 
but  much  external  polish,  and  certain  practical  conclusions  of 
a  very  decided  kind.  One  of  these  conclusions  was,  that 
there  were  things  more  solid  in  life  than  fine  whiskers  and  a 
title,  and  that,  in  accepting  a  second  husband,  she  would 
legal d  these  items  as  quite  subordinate  to  a  carriage  and  a 
settlement.  Now,  she  had  ascertained,  by  tentative  residences, 
that  the  kind  of  bite  she  was  angling  for  was  difficult  to  be 
met  with  at  watering-places,  which  were  already  preoccupied 
with  abundance  of  angling  beauties,  and  were  chiefly  stocked 
with  men  whose  whiskers  might  be  dyed,  and  whose  incomes 
weie  still  moie  problematic  j  so  she  had  determined  on  trying 
a  neighborhood  where  people  were  extremely  well  acquainted 
with  each  other’s  affairs,  and  where  the  women  were  mostly 
ill-dressed  and  ugly.  Mr.  Bridmain’s  slow  brain  had  adopted 
his  sister  s  views,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  a  woman  so 
handsome  and  distinguished  as  the  Countess  must  certainly 
make  a  match  that  might  lift  himself  into  the  region  of 
county  celebrities,  and  give  him  at  least  a  sort  of  cousinship 
to  the  quarter-sessions. 

All  this,  which  was  the  simple  truth,  would  have  seemed 


AMOS  BARTON 


43 


extremely  flat  to  the  gossips  of  Milby,  who  had  made  up  then 
minds  to  something  much  more  exciting.  There  was  nothing 
here  so  very  detestable.  It  is  true,  the  Countess  was  a  little 
vain,  a  little  ambitious,  a  little  selfish,  a  little  shallow  and 
frivolous,  a  little  given  to  white  lies.  —  But  who  considers 
such  slight  blemishes,  such  moral  pimples  as  these,  disqualifi¬ 
cations  for  entering  into  the  most  respectable  society  !  In¬ 
deed,  the  severest  ladies  in  Milby  would  have  been  perfectly 
aware  that  these  characteristics  would  have  created  no  wide 
distinction  between  the  Countess  Czerlaski  and  themselves  $ 
and  since  it  was  clear  there  was  a  wide  distinction  —  why,  it 
must  lie  in  the  possession  of  some  vices  from  which  they  were 
undeniably  free. 

Hence  it  came  to  pass  that  Milby  respectability  refused  to 
recognize  the  Countess  Czerlaski,  in  spite  of  her  assiduous 
cliurch-going,  and  the  deep  disgust  she  was  known  to  have 
expressed  at  the  extreme  paucity  of  the  congregations  on  Ash 
Wednesdays.  So  she  began  to  feel  that  she  had  miscalculated 
the  advantages  of  a  neighborhood  where  people  are  well  ac¬ 
quainted  with  each  other’s  private  affairs.  Under  these  cir¬ 
cumstances,  you  will  imagine  how  welcome  was  the  perfect 
credence  and  admiration  she  met  with  from  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Barton.  She  had  been  especially  irritated  by  Mr.  Ely’s  be¬ 
havior  to  her ;  she  felt  sure  that  he  was  not  in  the  least 
struck  with  her  beauty,  that  he  quizzed  her  conversation,  and 
that  he  spoke  of  her  with  a  sneer.  A  woman  always  knows 
where  she  is  utterly  powerless,  and  shuns  a  coldly  satirical 
eye  as  she  would  shun  a  Gorgon.  And  she  was  especially 
eager  for  clerical  notice  and  friendship,  not  merely  because 
that  is  quite  the  most  respectable  countenance  to  be  obtained 
in  society,  but  because  she  really  cared  about  religious  matters, 
and  had  an  uneasy  sense  that  she  was  not  altogether  safe  in  that 
quarter.  She  had  serious  intentions  of  becoming  quite  pious  — 
without  any  reserves  —  when  she  had  once  got  her  carriage 
and  settlement.  Let  us  do  this  one  sly  trick,  says  Ulysses  to 
Neoptolemus,  and  we  will  be  perfectly  honest  ever  after  — • 

aXX’  rjbv  yap  roc  Krrpxa  ttjs  viktjs  XafieiVf 

roXpa  •  St/catoi  5’  avdis  (KcfravovptOa. 


44 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

The  Countess  did  not  quote  Sophocles,  but  she  said  to  herself, 
u  Only  this  little  bit  of  pretence  and  vanity,  and  then  I 
will  be  quite  good,  and  make  myself  quite  safe  for  another 
world.” 

And  as  she  had  by  no  means  such  fine  taste  and  insight  in 
theological  teaching  as  in  costume,  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton 
seemed  to  her  a  man  not  only  of  learning  —  that  is  always 
understood  with  a  clergyman  — •  but  of  much  power  as  a  spirit¬ 
ual  director.  As  for  Milly,  the  Countess  really  loved  her  as 
well  as  the  preoccupied  state  of  her  affections  would  allow. 
For  you  have  already  perceived  that  there  was  one  being  to 
whom  the  Countess  was  absorbingly  devoted,  and  to  whose 
desires  she  made  everything  else  subservient  —  namely,  Caro¬ 
line  Czerlaski,  7iee  Bridmain. 

Thus  there  was  really  not  much  affectation  in  her  sweet 
speeches  and  attentions  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barton.  Still  their 
friendship  by  no  means  adequately  represented  the  object  she 
had  in  view  when  she  came  to  Milby,  and  it  had  been  for 
some  time  clear  to  her  that  she  must  suggest  a  new  change  of 
residence  to  her  brother. 

The  thing  we  look  forward  to  often  comes  to  pass,  but 
never  precisely  in  the  way  we  have  imagined  to  ourselves. 
The  Countess  did  actually  leave  Camp  Villa  before  many 
months  were  past,  but  under  circumstances  which  had  not  at 
all  entered  into  her  contemplation. 


♦ 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  Rev.  Amos  Barton,  whose  sad  fortunes  I  have  under¬ 
taken  to  relate,  was,  you  perceive,  in  no  respect  an  ideal  or 
exceptional  character ;  and  perhaps  I  am  doing  a  bold  thing 
to  bespeak  your  sympathy  on  behalf  of  a  man  who  was  so 
VQvy  far  from  remarkable,  —  a  man  whose  virtues  were  not 


AMOS  BARTON. 


45 


heroic,  and  who  had  no  undetected  crime  within  his  breast ; 
who  had  not  the  slightest  mystery  hanging  about  him,  but 
was  palpably  and  unmistakably  commonplace ;  who  was  not 
even  in  love,  but  had  had  that  complaint  favorably  many 
years  ago.  “  An  utterly  uninteresting  character !  ”  I  think  I 
hear  a  lady  reader  exclaim  —  Mrs.  Farthingale,  for  example, 
who  prefers  the  ideal  in  fiction;  to  whom  tragedy  means 
ermine  tippets,  adultery,  and  murder ;  and  comedy,  the  adven¬ 
tures  of  some  personage  wild  is  quite  a  “character.” 

But,  my  dear  madam,  it  is  so  very  large  a  majority  of  your 
fellow-countrymen  that  are  of  this  insignificant  stamp.  At 
least  eighty  out  of  a  hundred  of  your  adult  male  fellow-Britons 
returned  in  the  last  census  are  neither  extraordinarily  silly,  nor 
extraordinarily  wicked,  nor  extraordinarily  wise ;  their  eyes 
are  neither  deep  and  liquid  with  sentiment,  nor  sparkling 
with  suppressed  witticisms  ;  they  have  probably  had  no  hair¬ 
breadth  escapes  or  thrilling  adventures ;  their  brains  are  cer¬ 
tainly  not  pregnant  with  genius,  and  their  passions  have  not 
manifested  themselves  at  all  after  the  fashion  of  a  volcano. 
They  are  simply  men  of  complexions  more  or  less  muddy, 
whose  conversation  is  more  or  less  bald  and  disjointed.  Yet 
these  commonplace  people  —  many  of  them  —  bear  a  con¬ 
science,  and  have  felt  the  sublime  prompting  to  do  the  painful 
right ;  they  have  their  unspoken  sorrows,  and  their  sacred 
joys ;  their  hearts  have  perhaps  gone  out  towards  their  first 
born,  and  they  have  mourned  over  the  irreclaimable  dead. 
Nay,  is  there  not  a  pathos  in  their  very  insignificance  —  in  our 
comparison  of  their  dim  and  narrow  existence  with  the  glorious 
possibilities  of  that  human  nature  which  they  share  ? 

Depend  upon  it,  you  would  gain  unspeakably  if  you  would 
learn  with  me  to  see  some  of  the  poetry  and  the  pathos,  the 
tragedy  and  the  comedy,  lying  in  the  experience  of  a  human 
soul  that  looks  out  through  dull  gray  eyes,  and  that  speaks  in 
a  voice  of  quite  ordinary  tones.  In  that  case,  I  should  have 
no  fear  of  your  not  caring  to  know  what  farther  befell  the  Rev. 
Amos  Barton,  or  of  your  thinking  the  homely  details  I  have  to 
tell  at  all  beneath  your  attention.  As  it  is,  you  can,  if  you  please, 
decline  to  pursue  my  story  farther  ;  and  you  will  easily  find 


4b 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


reading  more  to  your  taste,  since  I  learn  from  the  newspapers 
that  many  remarkable  novels,  full  of  striking  situations,  thrill¬ 
ing  incidents,  and  eloquent  writing,  have  appeared  only  within 
the  last  season. 

Meanwhile,  readers  who  have  begun  to  feel  an  interest  in  the 
Rev.  Amos  Barton  and  his  wife,  will  be  glad  to  learn  that  Mr. 
Oldinport  lent  the  twenty  pounds.  But  twenty  pounds  are 
soon  exhausted  when  twelve  are  due  as  back  payment  to  the 
butcher,  and  when  the  possession  of  eight  extra  sovereigns  in 
February  weather  is  an  irresistible  temptation  to  order  a  new 
great-coat.  And  though  Mr.  Bridmain  so  far  departed  from 
the  necessary  economy  entailed  on  him  by  the  Countess’s  ele¬ 
gant  toilet  and  expensive  maid,  as  to  choose  a  handsome 
black  silk,  stiff,  as  his  experienced  eye  discerned,  with  the 
genuine  strength  of  its  own  texture,  and  not  with  the  factitious 
strength  of  gum,  and  present  it  to  Mrs.  Barton,  in  retrieval  of 
the  accident  that  had  occurred  at  his  table,  yet,  dear  me  —  as 
every  husband  has  heard  —  what  is  the  present  of  a  gown  when 
you  are  deficiently  furnished  with  the  et-ceteras  of  apparel, 
and  when,  moreover,  there  are  six  children  whose  wear  and  tear 
of  clothes  is  something  incredible  to  the  non-maternal  mind  ? 

Indeed,  the  equation  of  income  and  expenditure  was  offering 
new  and  constantly  accumulating  difficulties  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Barton;  for  shortly  after  the  birth  of  little  Walter,  Milly’s 
aunt,  who  had  lived  with  her  ever  since  her  marriage,  had  with¬ 
drawn  herself,  her  furniture,  and  her  yearly  income,  to  the 
household  of  another  niece ;  prompted  to  that  step,  very  prob¬ 
ably,  by  a  slight  “  tiff  ”  with  the  Rev.  Amos,  which  occurred 
while  Milly  was  up-stairs,  and  proved  one  too  many  for  the 
elderly  lady’s  patience  and  magnanimity.  Mr.  Barton’s  temper 
was  a  little  warm,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  elderly  maiden  ladies 
are  known  to  be  susceptible ;  so  we  will  not  suppose  that  all 
the  blame  lay  on  his  side  —  the  less  so,  as  he  had  every  motive 
for  humoring  an  inmate  whose  presence  kept  the  wolf  from  the 
door.  It  was  now  nearly  a  year  since  Miss  Jackson’s  depar¬ 
ture,  and,  to  a  fine  ear,  the  howl  of  the  wolf  was  audibly 
approaching. 

It  was  a  sad  thing,  too,  that  when  the  last  snow  had  melted. 


AMOS  BARTON. 


47 


when  the  purple  and  yellow  crocuses  were  coming  up  in  the 
garden,  and  the  old  church  was  already  half  pulled  down,  Milly 
had  an  illness  which  made  her  lips  look  pale,  and  rendered  it 
absolutely  necessary  that  she  should  not  exert  herself  for  some 
time.  Mr.  Brand,  the  Shepperton  doctor  so  obnoxious  to  Mr. 
Pilgrim,  ordered  her  to  drink  port-wine,  and  it  was  quite  neces¬ 
sary  to  have  a  charwoman  very  often,  to  assist  Nanny  in  all 
the  extra  work  that  fell  upon,  her. 

Mrs.  Hackit,  who  hardly  ever  paid  a  visit  to  any  one  but  her 
oldest  and  nearest  neighbor,  Mrs.  Patten,  now  took  the  unusual 
step  of  calling  at  the  vicarage  one  morning;  and  the  tears 
came  into  her  unsentimental  eyes  as  she  saw  Milly  seated  pale 
and  feeble  in  the  parlor,  unable  to  persevere  in  sewing  the  pin¬ 
afore  that  lay  on  the  table  beside  her.  Little  Dickey,  a  boister¬ 
ous  boy  of  five,  with  large  pink  cheeks  and  sturdy  legs,  was 
having  his  turn  to  sit  with  Mamma,  and  was  squatting  quiet 
as  a  mouse  at  her  knee,  holding  her  soft  white  hand  between 
his  little  red  black-nailed  fists.  He  was  a  boy  whom  Mrs. 
Hackit,  in  a  severe  mood,  had  pronounced  “  stocky  ”  (a  word 
that  etymologically,  in  all  probability,  conveys  some  allusion 
to  an  instrument  of  punishment  for  the  refractory) ;  but  see¬ 
ing  him  thus  subdued  into  goodness,  she  smiled  at  him  with 
her  kindest  smile,  and,  stooping  down,  suggested  a  kiss — a 
favor  which  Dickey  resolutely  declined. 

“Now  do  you  take  nourishing  things  enough  ?”  was  one  of 
Mrs.  Hackit’s  first  questions,  and  Milly  endeavored  to  make  it 
appear  that  no  woman  was  ever  so  much  in  danger  of  being 
over-fed  and  led  into  self-indulgent  habits  as  herself.  But 
Mrs.  Hackit  gathered  one  fact  from  her  replies,  namely,  that 
Mr.  Brand  had  ordered  port-wine. 

While  this  conversation  was  going  forward,  Dickey  had  been 
furtively  stroking  and  kissing  the  soft  white  hand  ;  so  that  at 
last,  when  a  pause  came,  his  mother  said,  smilingly,  “  Why  are 
you  kissing  my  hand,  Dickey  ?  ” 

“  It  id  to  yovely,”  answered  Dickey,  who,  you  observe,  was 
decidedly  backward  in  his  pronunciation. 

Mrs.  Hackit  remembered  this  little  scene  in  after  days,  and 
thought  with  peculiar  tenderness  and  pity  of  the  “  stocky  boy.” 


48 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


The  next  day  there  came  a  hamper  with  Mrs.  Hackit’s  re¬ 
spects  ;  and  on  being  opened  it  was  found  to  contain  half-a- 
dozen  of  port-wine  and  two  couples  of  fowls.  Mrs.  Farquhar, 
too,  was  very  kind;  insisted  on  Mrs.  Barton’s  rejecting  all 
arrowroot  but  hers,  which  was  genuine  Indian,  and  carried 
away  Sophy  and  Fred  to  stay  with  her  a  fortnight.  These 
and  other  good-natured  attentions  made  the  trouble  of  Milly’s 
illness  more  bearable ;  but  they  could  not  prevent  it  from 
swelling  expenses,  and  Mr.  Barton  began  to  have  serious 
thoughts  of  representing  his  case  to  a  certain  charity  for  the 
relief  of  needy  curates. 

Altogether,  as  matters  stood  in  Shepperton,  the  parishioners 
were  more  likely  to  have  a  strong  sense  that  the  clergyman 
needed  their  material  aid,  than  that  they  needed  his  spiritual 
aid,  —  not  the  best  state  of  things  in  this  age  and  country, 
where  faith  in  men  solely  on  the  ground  of  their  spiritual 
gifts  has  considerably  diminished,  and  especially  unfavorable 
to  the  influence  of  the  Rev.  Amos,  whose  spiritual  gifts  would 
not  have  had  a  very  commanding  power  even  in  an  age  of 
faith.  \ 

But,  you  ask,  did  not  the  Countess  Czerlaski  pay  any  atten¬ 
tion  to  her  friends  all  this  time  ?  To  be  sure  she  did.  She 
was  indefatigable  in  visiting  her  “  sweet  Milly,”  and  sitting 
with  her  for  hours  together.  It  may  seem  remarkable  to  you 
that  she  neither  thought  of  taking  away  any  of  the  children, 
nor  of  providing  for  any  of  Milly’s  probable  wants  ;  but  ladies 
of  rank  and  of  luxurious  habits,  you  know,  cannot  be  expected 
to  surmise  the  details  of  poverty.  She  put  a  great  deal 
of  eau-de-Cologne  on  Mrs.  Barton’s  pocket-handkerchief,  re¬ 
arranged  her  pillow  and  footstool,  kissed  her  cheeks,  wrapped 
her  in  a  soft  warm  shawl  from  her  own  shoulders,  and  amused 
her  with  stories  of  the  life  she  had  seen  abroad.  When  Mr. 
Barton  joined  them  she  talked  of  Tractarianism,  of  her  deter¬ 
mination  not  to  re-enter  the  vortex  of  fashionable  life,  and  of 
her  anxiety  to  see  him  in  a  sphere  large  enough  for  his  talents. 
Milly  thought  her  sprightliness  and  affectionate  warmth  quite 
charming,  and  was  very  fond  of  her;  while  the  Rev.  Amos 
had  a  vague  consciousness  that  he  had  risen  into  aristocratic 


AMOS  BARTON. 


life,  and  only  associated  with  his  middle-class  parishioners  in 
a  pastoral  and  parenthetic  manner. 

However,  as  the  days  brightened,  Milly’s  cheeks  and  lips 
brightened  too;  and  in  a  few  weeks  she  was  almost  as  active 
as  ever,  though  watchful  eyes  might  have  seen  that  activity 
was  not  easy  to  her.  Mrs.  Hackit’s  eyes  were  of  that  kind, 
and  one  day,  when  Mr.  and  ]\Irs.  Barton  had  been  dining  with 
her  for  the  first  time  since  Milly’s  illness,  she  observed  to  her 
husband  —  “  That  poor  thing ’s  dreadful  weak  an’  dilicate ;  she 
won’t  stan’  havin’  many  more  children.” 

Mr.  Barton,  meanwhile,  had  been  indefatigable  in  his  voca¬ 
tion.  He  had  preached  two  extemporary  sermons  every  Sun¬ 
day  at  the  workhouse,  where  a  room  had  been  fitted  up  for 
divine  service,  pending  the  alterations  in  the  church  ;  and  had 
walked  the  same  evening  to  a  cottage  at  one  or  other  extrem¬ 
ity  of  his  parish  to  deliver  another  sermon,  still  more  extem¬ 
porary,  in  an  atmosphere  impregnated  with  spring-flowers  and 
perspiration.  After  all  these  labors  you  will  easily  conceive 
that  he  was  considerably  exhausted  by  half-past  nine  o’clock 
in  the  evening,  and  that  a  supper  at  a  friendly  parishioner’s, 
with  a  glass,  or  even  two  glasses,  of  brandy-and-water  after  it, 
was  a  welcome  reinforcement.  Mr.  Barton  was  not  at  all  an 
ascetic ;  he  thought  the  benefits  of  fasting  were  entirely  con¬ 
fined  to  the  Old  Testament  dispensation ;  he  was  fond  of  re¬ 
laxing  himself  with  a  little  gossip;  indeed,  Miss  Bond,  and 
other  ladies  of  enthusiastic  views,  sometimes  regretted  that 
Mr.  Barton  did  not  more  uninterruptedly  exhibit  a  superiority 
to  the  things  of  the  flesh.  Thin  ladies,  who  take  little  exer¬ 
cise,  and  whose  livers  are  not  strong  enough  to  bear  stimu¬ 
lants,  are  so  extremely  critical  about  one’s  personal  habits  ! 
And,  after  all,  the  Rev.  Amos  never  came  near  the  borders  of 
a  vice.  His  very  faults  were  middling  —  he  was  not  very  un¬ 
grammatical.  It  was  not  in  his  nature  to  be  superlative,  in 
anything;  unless,  indeed,  he  was  superlatively  middling,  the 
quintessential  extract  of  mediocrity  If  there  was  any  one 
point  on  which  he  showed  an  inclination  to  be  excessive,  it 
was  confidence  in  his  own  shrewdness  and  ability  in  practical 
matters,  so  that  was  very  full  of  plans  which  were  some- 

YOL.  IV 


50 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


thing  like  his  moves  in  chess  —  admirably  well  calculated, 
supposing  the  state  of  the  case  were  otherwise.  For  example, 
that  notable  plan  of  introducing  anti-Dissenting  books  into  his 
Lending  Library  did  not  in  the  least  appear  to  have  bruised 
the  head  of  Dissent,  though  it  had  certainly  made  Dissent 
strongly  inclined  to  bite  the  Rev.  Amos’s  heel.  Again,  he 
vexed  the  souls  of  his  churchwardens  and  influential  parish¬ 
ioners  by  his  fertile  suggestiveness  as  to  what  it  would  be  well 
for  them  to  do  in  the  matter  of  the  church  repairs,  and  other 
ecclesiastical  secularities. 

“  I  never  saw  the  like  to  parsons,”  Mr.  Hackit  said  one  day 
in  conversation  with  his  brother  churchwarden,  Mr.  Bond ; 
“  they  ’re  al’ys  for  meddling  with  business,  an’  they  know  no 
more  about  it  than  my  black  filly.” 

“Ah,”  said  Mr.  Bond,  “they’re  too  high  learnt  to  have 
much  common-sense.” 

“Well,”  remarked  Mr.  Hackit,  in  a  modest  and  dubious 
tone,  as  if  throwing  out  a  hypothesis  which  might  be  consid¬ 
ered  bold,  “  I  should  say  that ’s  a  bad  sort  of  eddication  as 
makes  folks  unreasonable.” 

So  that,  you  perceive,  Mr.  Barton’s  popularity  was  in  that 
precarious  condition,  in  that  toppling  and  contingent  state,  in 
which  a  very  slight  push  from  a  malignant  destiny  would 
utterly  upset  it.  That  push  was  not  long  in  being  given,  as 
you  shall  hear. 

One  fine  May  morning,  when  Amos  was  out  on  his  parochial 
visits,  and  the  sunlight  was  streaming  through  the  bow-window 
of  the  sitting-room,  where  Milly  was  seated  at  her  sewing, 
occasionally  looking  up  to  glance  at  the  children  playing  in 
the  garden,  there  came  a  loud  rap  at  the  door,  which  she  at 
once  recognized  as  the  Countess’s,  and  that  well-dressed  lady 
presently  entered  the  sitting-room,  with  her  veil  drawn  over 
her  face.  Milly  was  not  at  all  surprised  or  sorry  to  see  her  ; 
but  when  the  Countess  threw  up  her  veil,  and  showed  that  her 
eyes  were  red  and  swollen,  she  was  both  surprised  and  sorry. 

“  What  can  be  the  matter,  dear  Caroline  ?  ” 

Caroline  threw  down  Jet,  who  gave  a  little  yelp;  then  she 
threw  her  arms  round  Milly’s  neck,  and  began  to  sob ;  then 


AMOS  BARTON. 


51 


she  threw  herself  on  the  sofa,  and  begged  for  a  glass  of  watei ; 
then  she  threw  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl;  and  by  the  time 
Hilly’s  imagination  had  exhausted  itself  in  conjuring  up  calam¬ 
ities  she  said  — 

“Dear,  how  shall  I  tell  you?  I  am  the  most  wretched 
woman.  To  be  deceived  by  a  brother  to  whom  I  have  been 
so  devoted  —  to  see  him  degrading  himself  —  giving  himself 
utterly  to  the  dogs  !  ” 

“  What  can  it  be  ?  ”  said  Milly,  who  began  to  picture  to 
herself  the  sober  Mr.  Bridmain  taking  to  brandy  and  betting. 

“  He  is  going  to  be  married  —  to  marry  my  own  maid,  that 
deceitful  Alice,  to  whom  I  have  been  the  most  indulgent  mis¬ 
tress.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  anything  so  disgraceful  ?  so  mor¬ 
tifying  ?  so  disreputable  ?  ” 

“And  has  he  only  just  told  you  of  it  ?  ”  said  Milly,  who, 
having  really  heard  of  worse  conduct,  even  in  her  innocent 
life,  avoided  a  direct  answer. 

“  Told  me  of  it !  he  had  not  even  the  grace  to  do  that.  I 
went  into  the  dining-room  suddenly  and  found  him  kissing 
her  —  disgusting  at  his  time  of  life,  is  it  not  ?  —  and  when  I 
reproved  her  for  allowing  such  liberties,  she  turned  round 
saucily,  and  said  she  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  my  brother, 
and  she  saw  no  shame  in  allowing  him  to  kiss  her.  Edmund 
is  a  miserable  coward,  you  know,  and  looked  frightened ;  but 
when  she  asked  him  to  say  whether  it  was  not  so,  he  tried  to 
summon  up  courage  and  say  yes.  I  left  the  room  in  disgust, 
and  this  morning  I  have  been  questioning  Edmund,  and  find 
that  he  is  bent  on  marrying  this  woman,  and  that  he  has  been 
putting  off  telling  me  —  because  he  was  ashamed  of  himself, 

I  suppose.  I  could  n’t  possibly  stay  in  the  house  after  this, 
with  my  own  maid  turned  mistress.  And  now,  Milly,  I  am 
come  to  throw  myself  on  your  charity  for  a  week  or  two. 
Will  you  take  me  in  ?  ” 

“  That  we  will,”  said  Milly,  “  if  you  will  only  put  up  with 
our  poor  rooms  and  way  of  living.  It  will  be  delightful  to 
have  you  !  ” 

“  It  will  soothe  me  to  be  with  you  and  Mr.  Barton  a  little 
while.  I  feel  quite  unable  to  go  among  my  other  friends  just 


52 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


at  present.  What  those  two  wretched  people  will  do  I  don’t 
know  —  leave  the  neighborhood  at  once,  I  hope.  I  entreated 
my  brother  to  do  so,  before  he  disgraced  himself.” 

When  Amos  came  home,  he  joined  his  cordial  welcome  and 
sympathy  to  Milly’s.  By-and-by  the  Countess’s  formidable 
boxes,  which  she  had  carefully  packed  before  her  indignation 
drove  her  away  from  Camp  Villa,  arrived  at  the  vicarage,  and 
were  deposited  in  the  spare  bedroom,  and  in  two  closets,  not 
spare,  which  Milly  emptied  for  their  reception.  A  week  after¬ 
wards,  the  excellent  apartments  at  Camp  Villa,  comprising 
dining  and  drawing  rooms,  three  bedrooms  and  a  dressing- 
room,  were  again  to  let,  and  Mr.  Bridmain’s  sudden  departure, 
together  with  the  Countess  Czeriaski’s  installation  as  a  visitor 
at  Shepperton  Vicarage,  became  a  topic  of  general  conversa¬ 
tion  in  the  neighborhood.  The  keen-sighted  virtue  of  Milby 
and  Shepperton  saw  in  all  this  a  confirmation  of  its  worst 
suspicions,  and  pitied  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton’s  gullibility. 

But  when  week  after  week,  and  month  after  month,  slipped 
by  without  witnessing  the  Countess’s  departure  —  when  sum¬ 
mer  and  harvest  had  fled,  and  still  left  her  behind  them  occu¬ 
pying  the  spare  bedroom  and  the  closets,  and  also  a  large 
proportion  of  Mrs.  Barton’s  time  and  attention,  new  surmises 
of  a  very  evil  kind  were  added  to  the  old  rumors,  and  began 
to  take  the  form  of  settled  convictions  in  the  minds  even  of 
Mr.  Barton’s  most  friendly  parishioners. 

And  now,  here  is  an  opportunity  for  an  accomplished  writer 
to  apostrophize  calumny,  to  quote  Virgil,  and  to  show  that  he 
is  acquainted  with  the  most  ingenious  things  which  have  been 
said  on  that  subject  in  polite  literature. 

But  what  is  opportunity  to  the  man  who  can’t  use  it  ?  An 
unfecundated  egg,  which  the  waves  of  time  wash  away  into 
nonentity.  So,  as  my  memory  is  ill-furnished,  and  my  note¬ 
book  still  worse,  I  am  unable  to  show  myself  either  erudite 
or  eloquent  apropos  of  the  calumny  whereof  the  Rev.  Amos 
Barton  was  the  victim.  I  can  only  ask  my  reader,  —  did  you 
ever  upset  your  ink-bottle,  and  watch,  in  helpless  agony,  the 
rapid  spread  of  Stygian  blackness  over  your  fair  manuscript 
or  fairer  table-cover  ?  With  a  like  inky  swiftness  did  gossip 


SlIEPPERTON  ClIUllCU 


1  ifl  8  l|  II 


AMOS  BARTON. 


58 


now  blacken  the  reputation  of  the  RevJAmos  Barton,  causing 
the  unfriendly  to  scorn  and  even  the  friendly  to  stand  aloof, 
at  a  time  when  difficulties  of  another  kind  were  fast  thicken¬ 
ing  around  him.. 


CHAPTER  VL 


Ottr  November  morning,  at  least  six  months  after  tho 
Countess  Czerlaski  had  taken  up  her  residence  at  the  vicar¬ 
age,  Mrs.  Hackit  heard  that  her  neighbor  Mrs.  Patten  had 
an  attack  of  her  old  complaint,  vaguely  called  “  the  spasms.1'' 
Accordingly,  about  eleven  o’clock,  she  put  on  her  velvet  bon 
net  and  cloth  cloak,  with  a  long  boa  and  muff  large  enough  to 
stow  a  prize  baby  in ;  for  Mrs.  Hackit  regulated  her  costume 
by  tho  calendar,  and  brought  out  her  furs  on  the  first  of 
November,  whatever  might  be  the  temperature.  She  was  not 
a  woman  weakly  to  accommodate  herself  to  shilly-shally  pro¬ 
ceedings.  If  the  season  did  n’t  know  what  it  ought  to  do,  Mrs. 
Hackit  did.  In  her  best  days,  it  was  always  sharp  weather  at 
“  Gunpowder  Plot,”  and  she  did  n’t  like  new  fashions. 

And  this  morning  the  weather  was  very  rationally  in  accord¬ 
ance  with  her  costume,  for  as  she  made  her  way  through  the 
fields  to  Cross  Farm,  the  yellow  leaves  on  the  hedge-girt  elms 
which  showed  bright  and  golden  against  the  low-hanging  pur¬ 
ple  clouds,  were  being  scattered  across  the  grassy  path  by  the 
coldest  of  November  winds.  “Ah,”  Mrs.  Hackit  thought  to 
herself,  “I  dare  say  we  shall  have  a. sharp  pinch  this  winter, 
and  if  we  do,  I  should  n’t  wonder  if  it  takes  the  old  lady  off, 
They  say  a  green  Yule  makes  a  fat  churchyard  ;  but  so  does 
a  white  Yule  too,  for  that  matter.  When  the  stool ’s  rotten 
enough,  no  matter  who  sits  on  it.” 

However,  on  her  arrival  at  Cross  Farm,  the  prospect  of  Mrs. 
Patten’s  decease  was  again  thrown  into  the  dim  distance  in 
her  imagination,  for  Miss  Janet  Gibbs  met  her  with  the  news 


54 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


that  Mrs.  Patten  was  much  better,  and  led  her,  without  any 
preliminary  announcement,  to  the  old  lady’s  bedroom.  Janet 
had  scarcely  reached  the  end  of  her  circumstantial  narrative 
how  the  attack  came  on  and  what  were  her  aunt’s  sensations  — 
a  narrative  to  which  Mrs.  Patten,  in  her  neatly  plaited  night¬ 
cap,  seemed  to  listen  with  a  contemptuous  resignation  to  her 
niece’s  historical  inaccuracy,  contenting  herself  with  occasion¬ 
ally  confounding  Janet  by  a  shake  of  the  head  —  when  the 
clatter  of  a  horse’s  hoofs  on  the  yard  pavement  announced  the 
arrival  of  Mr.  Pilgrim,  whose  large,  top-booted  person  pres¬ 
ently  made  its  appearance  up-stairs.  He  found  Mrs.  Patten 
going  on  so  well  that  there  was  no  need  to  look  solemn.  He 
might  glide  from  condolence  into  gossip  without  offence,  and 
the  tempation  of  having  Mrs.  Hackit’s  ear  was  irresistible. 

“What  a  disgraceful  business  this  is  turning  out  of  your 
parson’s,”  was  the  remark  with  which  he  made  this  agreeable 
transition,  throwing  himself  back  in  the  chair  from  which  he 
had  been  leaning  towards  the  patient. 

“  Eh,  dear  me  !  ”  said  Mrs.  Hackit,  “  disgraceful  enough. 
I  stuck  to  Mr.  Barton  as  long  as  I  could,  for  his  wife’s  sake  ; 
but  I  can’t  countenance  such  goings-on.  It ’s  hateful  to  see 
that  woman  coming  with  ’em  to  service  of  a  Sunday,  and  if 
Mr.  Hackit  was  n’t  churchwarden  and  I  did  n’t  think  it  wrong 
to  forsake  one’s  own  parish,  I  should  go  to  Knebley  Church. 
There ’s  a  many  parish’ners  as  do.” 

“  I  used  to  think  Barton  was  only  a  fool,”  observed  Mr.  Pil¬ 
grim,  in  a  tone  which  implied  that  he  was  conscious  of  having 
been  weakly  charitable.  “  I  thought  he  was  imposed  upon  and 
led  away  by  those  people  when  they  first  came.  But  that ’s 
impossible  now.” 

“  Oh,  it ’s  as  plain  as  the  nose  in  your  face,”  said  Mrs. 
Hackit,  unreflectingly,  not  perceiving  the  equivoque  in  her 
comparison  —  “  cornin’  to  Milby,  like  a  sparrow  perchin’  on  a 
bough,  as  I  may  say,  with  her  brother,  as  she  called  him  ;  and 
then  all  on  a  sudden  the  brother  goes  off  with  himself,  and  she 
throws  herself  on  the  Bartons.  Though  what  could  make  her 
take  up  with  a  poor  notomise  of  a  parson,  as  has  n’t  got  enough 
to  keep  wife  and  children,  there ’s  One  above  knows  —  I  don’t.” 


AMOS  BARTON. 


55 


"Mr.  Barton  may  have  attractions  we  don’t  know  of,”  said 
Mr.  Pilgrim,  who  piqued  himself  on  a  talent  for  sarcasm.  “The 
Countess  has  no  maid  now,  and  they  say  Mr.  Barton  is  handy  in 
assisting  at  her  toilet  —  laces  her  boots,  and  so  forth.” 

“  Tilette  be  fiddled !  ”  said  Mrs.  Hackit,  with  indignant 
boldness  of  metaphor ;  “  an’  there  ’s  that  poor  thing  a-sewing 
her  fingers  to  the  bone  for  them  children  —  an’  another  cornin’ 
on.  What  she  must  have  to  go  through !  It  goes  to  my  heart 
to  turn  my  back  on  her.  But  she ’s  i’  the  wrong  to  let  herself 
be  put  upon  i’  that  manner.” 

“Ah!  I  was  talking  to  Mrs.  Farquhar  about  that  the 
other  day.  She  said,  ‘I  think  Mrs.  Barton  a  v-e-r-y  w-e-a-k 
w-o-m-a-n.’  ”  (Mr.  Pilgrim  gave  this  quotation  with  slow 
emphasis,  as  if  he  thought  Mrs.  Farquhar  had  uttered  a  re¬ 
markable  sentiment.)  “  They  find  it  impossible  to  invite  her 
to  their  house  while  she  has  that  equivocal  person  staying 
with  her.” 

“Well!”  remarked  Miss  Gibbs,  "if  I  was  a  wife,  nothing 
should  induce  me  to  bear  what  Mrs.  Barton  does.” 

“Yes,  it ’s  fine  talking,”  said  Mrs.  Patten,  from  her  pillow; 
u  old  maids’  husbands  are  al’ys  well-managed.  If  you  was  a 
wife  you ’d  be  as  foolish  as  your  betters,  belike.” 

“  All  my  wonder  is,”  observed  Mrs.  Hackit,  “  how  the  Bar¬ 
tons  make  both  ends  meet.  You  may  depend  on  it,  she’s  got 
nothing  to  give  ’em ;  for  I  understand  as  he ’s  been  havin’ 
money  from  some  clergy  charity.  They  said  at  fust  as  she 
stuffed  Mr.  Barton  wi’  notions  about  her  writing  to  the  Chan¬ 
cellor  an’  her  fine  friends,  to  give  him  a  living.  Howiver,  I 
don’t  know  what ’s  true  an’  what ’s  false.  Mr.  Barton  keeps 
away  from  our  house  now,  for  I  gave  him  a  bit  o’  my  mind  one 
day.  Maybe  he ’s  ashamed  of  himself.  He  seems  to  me  to 
look  dreadful  thin  an’  harassed  of  a  Sunday.” 

“  Oh,  he  must  be  aware  he ’s  getting  into  bad  odor  every¬ 
where.  The  clergy  are  quite  disgusted  with  his  folly.  They 
say  Carpe  would  be  glad  to  get  Barton  out  of  the  curacy  if  he 
could ;  but  he  can’t  do  that  without  coming  to  Shepperton 
himself,  as  Barton ’s  a  licensed  curate  ;  and  he  would  n’t  like 
that,  I  suppose.” 


56 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


At  this  moment  Mrs.  Patten  showed  signs  of  uneasiness 
which  recalled  Mr.  Pilgrim  to  professional  attentions  ;  and 
Mrs.  Hackit,  observing  that  it  was  Thursday,  and  she  must 
see  after  the  butter,  said  good-by,  promising  to  look  in  again 
soon,  and  bring  her  knitting. 

This  Thursday,  by  the  bye,  is  the  first  in  the  month  —  the 
day  on  which  the  Clerical  Meeting  is  held  at  Milby  Vicarage  j 
and  as  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton  has  reasons  for  not  attending, 
he  will  very  likely  be  a  subject  of  conversation  amongst  his 
clerical  brethren.  Suppose  we  go  there,  and  hear  whether  Mr. 
Pilgrim  has  reported  their  opinion  correctly. 

There  is  not  a  numerous  party  to-day,  for  it  is  a  season  of 
sore  throats  and  catarrhs ;  so  that  the  exegetical  and  theologi¬ 
cal  discussions,  which  are  the  preliminary  of  dining,  have  not 
been  quite  so  spirited  as  usual ;  and  although  a  question  rela¬ 
tive  to  the  Epistle  of  Jude  has  not  been  quite  cleared  up,  the 
striking  of  six  by  the  church  clock,  and  the  simultaneous 
announcement  of  dinner,  are  sounds  that  no  one  feels  to  oe 
importunate. 

Pleasant  (when  one  is  not  in  the  least  bilious)  to  enter  a 
comfortable  dining-room,  where  the  closely  drawn  red  curtains 
glow  with  the  double  light  of  fire  and  candle,  where  glass  and 
silver  are  glittering  on  the  pure  damask,  and  a  soup-tureen 
gives  a  hint  of  the  fragrance  that  will  presently  rush  out  to 
inundate  your  hungry  senses,  and  prepare  them,  by  the  deli¬ 
cate  visitation  of  atoms,  for  the  keen  gusto  of  ampler  contact ! 
Especially  if  you  have  confidence  in  the  dinner-giving  capacity 
of  your  host  —  if  you  know  that  he  is  not  a  man  who  en¬ 
tertains  grovelling  views  of  eating  and  drinking  as  a  mere 
satisfaction  of  hunger  and  thirst,  and,  dead  to  all  the  finer 
influences  of  the  palate,  expects  his  guest  to  be  brilliant 
on  ill-flavored  gravies  and  the  cheapest  Marsala.  Mr.  Ely 
was  particularly  worthy  of  such  confidence,  and  his  virtues 
as  an  Amphitryon  had  probably  contributed  quite  as  much 
as  the  central  situation  of  Milby  to  the  selection  of  his 
house  as  a  clerical  rendezvous.  He  looks  particularly  grace¬ 
ful  at  the  head  of  his  table,  and,  indeed,  on  all  occasions 
where  he  acts  as  president  or  moderator :  he  is  a  man  whr 


AMOS  BARTON.  57 

seems  to  listen  well,  and  is  an  excellent  amalgam  of  dissimilar 
ingredients. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  table,  as  “Vice,”  sits  Mr.  Fellowes, 
rector  and  magistrate,  a  man  of  imposing  appearance,  with  a 
mellifluous  voice  and  the  readiest  of  tongues.  Mr.  Fellowes 
once  obtained  a  living  by  the  persuasive  charms  of  his  conver¬ 
sation,  and  the  fluency  with  which  he  interpreted  the  opinions 
of  an  obese  and  stammering  baronet,  so  as  to  give  that  elderly 
gentleman  a  very  pleasing  perception  of  his  own  wisdom.  Mr. 
Fellowes  is  a  very  successful  man,  and  has  the  highest  charac¬ 
ter  everywhere  except  in  his  own  parish,  where,  doubtless 
because  his  parishioners  happen  to  be  quarrelsome  people,  he 
is  always  at  fierce  feud  with  a  farmer  or  two,  a  colliery  pro¬ 
prietor,  a  grocer  who  was  once  churchwarden,  and  a  tailor  who 
formerly  officiated  as  clerk. 

At  Mr.  Ely’s  right  hand  you  see  a  very  small  man  with  a 
sallow  and  somewhat  puffy  face,  whose  hair  is  brushed  straight 
up,  evidently  with  the  intention  of  giving  him  a  height  some¬ 
what  less  disproportionate  to  his  sense  of  his  own  importance 
than  the  measure  of  five  feet  three  accorded  him  by  an  over¬ 
sight  of  nature.  This  is  the  Rev.  Archibald  Duke,  a  very  dys¬ 
peptic  and  evangelical  man,  who  takes  the  gloomiest  view  of 
mankind  and  their  prospects,  and  thinks  the  immense  sale  of 
the  “Pickwick  Papers,”  recently  completed,  one  of  the  strongest 
proofs  of  original  sin.  Unfortunately,  though  Mr.  Duke  was 
not  burdened  with  a  family,  his  yearly  expenditure  was  apt 
considerably  to  exceed  his  income  ;  and  the  unpleasant  cir¬ 
cumstances  resulting  from  this,  together  with  heavy  meat- 
breakfasts,  may  probably  have  contributed  to  his  desponding 
views  of  the  world  generally. 

Next  to  him  is  seated  Mr.  Furness,  a  tall  young  man,  with 
blond  hair  and  whiskers,  who  was  plucked  at  Cambridge 
entirely  owing  to  his  genius  ;  at  least  I  know  that  he  soon 
afterwards  published  a  volume  of  poems,  which  wrere  considered 
remarkably  beautiful  by  many  young  ladies  of  his  acquaint¬ 
ance^  Mr.  Furness  preached  his  own  sermons,  as  any  one  of 
tolerable  critical  acumen  might  have  certified  by  comparing 
them  with  his  poems :  in  both,  there  was  an  exuberance  of 


58 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


metaphor  and  simile  entirely  original,  and  not  in  the  least 
borrowed  from  any  resemblance  in  the  things  compared. 

On  Mr.  Furness’s  left  you  see  Mr.  Pugh,  another  young 
curate,  of  much  less  marked  characteristics.  He  had  not  pub¬ 
lished  any  poems  ;  he  had  not  even  been  plucked ;  he  had  neat 
black  whiskers  and  a  pale  complexion ;  read  prayers  and  a 
sermon  twice  every  Sunday,  and  might  be  seen  any  day  sally¬ 
ing  forth  on  his  parochial  duties  in  a  white  tie,  a  well-brushed 
hat,  a  perfect  suit  of  black,  and  well-polished  boots  —  an 
equipment  which  he  probably  supposed  hieroglyphically  to 
represent  the  spirit  of  Christianity  to  the  parishioners  of 
Whittlecombe. 

Mr.  Pugh’s  vis-a-vis  is  the  Rev.  Martin  Cleves,  a  man  about 
forty  —  middle-sized,  broad-shouldered,  with  a  negligently  tied 
cravat,  large  irregular  features,  and  a  large  head  thickly  cov¬ 
ered  with  lanky  brown  hair.  To  a  superficial  glance,  Mr. 
Cleves  is  the  plainest  and  least  clerical-looking  of  the  party ; 
yet,  strange  to  say,  there  is  the  true  parish  priest,  the  pastor 
beloved,  consulted,  relied  on  by  his  flock ;  a  clergyman  who  is 
not  associated  with  the  undertaker,  but  thought  of  as  the  sur¬ 
est  helper  under  a  difficulty,  as  a  monitor  who  is  encouraging 
rather  than  severe.  Mr.  Cleves  has  the  wonderful  art  of 
preaching  sermons  which  the  wheelwright  and  the  blacksmith 
can  understand ;  not  because  he  talks  condescending  twaddle, 
but  because  he  can  call  a  spade  a  spade,  and  knows  how  to 
disencumber  ideas  of  their  wordy  frippery.  Look  at  him  more 
attentively,  and  you  will  see  that  his  face  is  a  very  interesting 
one  —  that  there  is  a  great  deal  of  humor  and  feeling  playing 
in  his  gray  eyes,  and  about  the  corners  of  his  roughly  cut 
mouth :  —  a  man,  you  observe,  who  has  most  likely  sprung 
from  the  harder-working  section  of  the  middle  class,  and  has 
hereditary  sympathies  with  the  checkered  life  of  the  people. 
He  gets  together  the  working  men  in  his  parish  on  a  Monday 
evening,  and  gives  them  a  sort  of  conversational  lecture  on 
useful  practical  matters,  telling  them  stories,  or  reading  some 
select  passages  from  an  agreeable  book,  and  commenting  on 
them;  and  if  you  were  to  ask  the  first  laborer  or  artisan  in 
Tripplegate  what  sort  of  man  the  parson  was,  he  would  say, 


AMOS  BARTON. 


59 


—  a  uncommon  knowin’,  sensible,  free-spoken  gentleman ; 
very  kind  an’  good-natur’d  too.”  Yet  for  all  this,  he  is  per¬ 
haps  the  best  Grecian  of  the  party,  if  we  except  Mr.  Baird, 
the  young  man  on  his  left. 

Mr.  Baird  has  since  gained  considerable  celebrity  as  an  origi¬ 
nal  writer  and  metropolitan  lecturer,  but  at  that  time  he  used 
to  preach  in  a  little  church  something  like  a  barn,  to  a  congre¬ 
gation  consisting  of  three  rich  farmers  and  their  servants, 
about  fifteen  laborers,  and  the  due  proportion  of  women  and 
children.  The  rich  farmers  understood  him  to  be  “  very  high 
learnt ;  ”  but  if  you  had  interrogated  them  for  a  more  precise 
description,  they  would  have  said  that  he  was  “a  thinnish- 
faced  man,  with  a  sort  o’  cast  in  his  eye,  like.” 

Seven,  altogether :  a  delightful  number  for  a  dinner-party, 
supposing  the  units  to  be  delightful,  but  everything  depends 
on  that.  During  dinner  Mr.  Fellowes  took  the  lead  in  the 
conversation,  which  set  strongly  in  the  direction  of  mangold- 
wurzel  and  the  rotation  of  crops ;  for  Mr.  Fellowes  and  Mr. 
Cleves  cultivated  their  own  glebes.  Mr.  Ely,  too,  had  some 
agricultural  notions,  and  even  the  Rev.  Archibald  Duke  was 
made  alive  to  that  class  of  mundane  subjects  by  the  possession 
of  some  potato-ground.  The  two  young  curates  talked  a  little 
aside  during  these  discussions,  which  had  imperfect  interest 
for  their  unbeneficed  minds  ;  and  the  transcendental  and  near¬ 
sighted  Mr.  Baird  seemed  to  listen  somewhat  abstractedly, 
knowing  little  more  of  potatoes  and  mangold-wurzel  than  that 
they  were  some  form  of  the  “  Conditioned.” 

“  What  a  hobby  farming  is  with  Lord  Watling !  ”  said  Mr. 
Fellowes,  when  the  cloth  was  being  drawn.  “  I  went  over  his 
farm  at  Tetterley  with  him  last  summer.  It  is  really  a  model 
farm ;  first-rate  dairy,  grazing  and  wheat  land,  and  such 
splendid  farm-buildings  !  An  expensive  hobby,  though.  He 
sinks  a  good  deal  of  money  there,  1  fancy.  He  has  a  great 
whim  for  black  cattle,  and  he  sends  that  drunken  old  Scotch 
bailiff  of  his  to  Scotland  every  year,  with  hundreds  in  his 
pocket,  to  buy  these  beasts.” 

*  By  the  bye,”  said  Mr.  Ely,  "  do  you  know  who  is  the  man 
t(  whom  Lord  Watling  has  given  the  Bramhill  livings  ?” 


60 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


“A  man  named  Sargent.  I  knew  him  at  Oxford,  His 
brother  is  a  lawyer,  and  was  very  useful  to  Lord  Watling 
in  that  ugly  Brounsell  affair.  That ’s  why  Sargent  got  the 
living.” 

“  Sargent,”  said  Mr.  Ely.  “  I  know  him.  Is  n’t  he  a  showy, 
talkative  fellow ;  has  written  travels  m  Mesopotamia,  or  some 
thing  of  that  sort  ?  ” 

“  That ’s  the  man.” 

“  He  was  at  Witherington  once,  as  Bagshawe’s  curate.  He 
got  into  rather  bad  odor  there,  through  some  scandal  about 
a  flirtation,  I  think.” 

“  Talking  of  scandal,”  returned  Mr.  Fellowes,  “have  you 
heard  the  last  story  about  Barton  ?  Nisbett  was  telling  me 
the  other  day  that  he  dines  alone  with  the  Countess  at  six, 
while  Mrs.  Barton  is  in  the  kitchen  acting  as  cook.” 

“Bather  an  apocryphal  authority,  Nisbett,”  said  Mr.  Ely. 

“  Ah,”  said  Mr.  Cleves,  with  good-natured  humor  twinkling 
in  his  eyes,  “  depend  upon  it,  that  is  a  corrupt  version.  The 
original  text  is,  that  they  all  dined  together  with  six  — 
meaning  six  childi'en  —  and  that  Mrs.  Barton  is  an  excellent 
cook.” 

“  I  wish  dining  alone  together  may  be  the  worst  of  that  sad 
business,”  said  the  Rev.  Archibald  Duke,  in  a  tone  implying 
that  his  wish  was  a  strong  figure  of  speech. 

“Well,”  said  Mr.  Fellowes,  filling  his  glass  and  looking 
jocose,  “  Barton  is  certainly  either  the  greatest  gull  in  exist¬ 
ence,  or  he  has  some  cunning  secret,  —  some  philtre  or  other 
to  make  himself  charming  in  the  eyes  of  a  fair  lady.  It  is  n’t 
all  of  us  that  can  make  conquests  when  our  ugliness  is  past 
its  bloom.” 

“  The  lady  seemed  to  have  made  a  conquest  of  him  at  the 
very  outset,”  said  Mr.  Ely.  “I  was  immensely  amused  one 
night  at  Granby’s  when  he  was  telling  us  her  story  about  her 
husband’s  adventures.  He  said,  ‘  When  she  told  me  the  tale, 
I  felt  I  don’t  know  how,  —  I  felt  it  from,  the  crown  of  my  head 
to  the  sole  of  my  feet.’  ” 

Mr.  Ely  gave  these  words  dramatically,  imitating  the  Rev. 
Amos’s  fervor  and  symbolic  action,  and  °very  one  laughed 


AMOS  BARTON.  61 

except  Mr.  Duke,  whose  after-dinner  view  of  things  was  not 
apt  to  be  jovial.  He  said  — 

“  1  think  some  of  us  ought  to  remonstrate  with  Mr.  Barton 
on  the  scandal  he  is  causing.  He  is  not  only  imperilling  his 
own  soul,  but  the  souls  of  his  flock.” 

“  Depend  upon  it,”  said  Mr.  Cleves,  “  there  is  some  simple 
explanation  of  the  whole  affair,  if  we  only  happened  to  know 
it.  Barton  has  always  impressed  me  as  a  right-minded 
man,  who  has  the  knack  of  doing  himself  injustice  by  his 
manner.” 

“Now  /  never  liked  Barton,”  said  Mr.  Fellowes.  “He’s 
not  a  gentleman.  Why,  he  used  to  be  on  terms  of  intimacy 
with  that  canting  Prior,  who  died  a  little  while  ago ;  —  a 
fellow  who  soaked  himself  with  spirits,  and  talked  of  the 
Gospel  through  an  inflamed  nose.” 

“The  Countess  has  given  him  more  refined  tastes,  I  dare 
say,”  said  Mr.  Ely. 

“Well,”  observed  Mr.  Cleves,  “the  poor  fellow  must  have 
a  hard  pull  to  get  along,  with  his  small  income  and  large 
family.  Let  us  hope  the  Countess  does  something  towards 
making  the  pot  boil.” 

“Not  she,”  said  Mr.  Duke;  “there  are  greater  signs  of 
poverty  about  them  than  ever.” 

“Well,  come,”  returned  Mr.  Cleves,  who  could  be  caustic 
sometimes,  and  who  was  not  at  all  fond  of  his  reverend 
brother,  Mr.  Duke,  “that’s  something  in  Barton’s  favor  at 
all  events.  He  might  be  poor  without  showing  signs  of 
poverty.” 

Mr.  Duke  turned  rather  yellow,  which  was  his  way  of  blush' 
ing,  and  Mr.  Ely  came  to  his  relief  by  observing  — 

“  They  ’re  making  a  very  good  piece  of  work  of  Shepperton 
Church.  Dolby,  the  architect,  who  has  it  in  hand,  is  a  very 
clever  fellow.” 

“It ’s  he  who  has  been  doing  Coppleton  Church,”  said 
Mr.  Furness.  “  They ’ve  got  it  in  excellent  order  for  the 
visitation.” 

This  mention  of  the  visitation  suggested  the  Bishop,  and 
thus  opened  a  wide  duct,  which  entirely  diverted  the  stream 


62 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


of  animadversion  from  that  small  pipe  —  that  capillary  vessel 
the  Rev.  Amos  Barton. 

The  talk  of  the  clergy  about  their  Bishop  belongs  to  the 
esoteric  part  of  their  profession  ;  so  we  will  at  once  quit  the 
dining-room  at  Milby  Vicarage,  lest  we  should  happen  to  over¬ 
hear  remarks  un suited  to  the  lay  understanding,  and  perhaos 
dangerous  to  our  repose  of  mind* 


♦ 


CHAPTER  VII. 

I  dare  say  the  long  residence  of  the  Countess  Czerlaski  at 
Shepperton  Vicarage  is  very  puzzling  to  you  also,  dear  reader, 
as  well  as  to  Mr.  Barton’s  clerical  brethren ;  the  more  so,  as 
I  hope  you  are  not  in  the  least  inclined  to  put  that  very  evil 
interpretation  on  it  which  evidently  found  acceptance  with  the 
sallow  and  dyspeptic  Mr.  Duke,  and  with  the  florid  and  highly 
peptic  Mr.  Eellowes.  You  have  seen  enough,  I  trust,  of  the 
Rev.  Amos  Barton,  to  be  convinced  that  he  was  more  apt  to 
fall  into  a  blunder  than  into  a  sin  —  more  apt  to  be  deceived 
than  to  incur  a  necessity  for  being  deceitful :  and  if  you  have 
a  keen  eye  for  physiognomy,  you  will  have  detected  that  the 
Countess  Czerlaski  loved  herself  far  too  well  to  get  entangled 
in  an  unprofitable  vice. 

How,  then,  you  will  say,  could  this  fine  lady  choose  to  quar¬ 
ter  herself  on  the  establishment  of  a  poor  curate,  where  the 
carpets  were  probably  falling  into  holes,  where  the  attendance 
was  limited  to  a  maid-of-all-work,  and  where  six  children 
were  running  loose  from  eight  o’clock  in  the  morning  till 
eight  o’clock  in  the  evening  ?  Surely  you  must  be  straining 
probability. 

Heaven  forbid  !  For  not  having  a  lofty  imagination,  as  you 
perceive,  and  being  unable  to  invent  thrilling  incidents  for 
your  amusement,  my  only  merit  must  lie  in  the  truth  with 


AMOS  BARTON. 


63 


which  I  represent  to  you  the  humble  experience  of  ordinary 
fellow-mortals.  I  wish  to  stir  your  sympathy  with  common¬ 
place  troubles  —  to  win  your  tears  for  real  sorrow :  sorrow 
such  as  may  live  next  door  to  you  —  such  as  walks  neither  in 
rags  nor  in  velvet,  but  in  very  ordinary  decent  apparel. 

Therefore,  that  you  may  dismiss  your  suspicions  as  to  the 
truth  of  my  picture,  I  will  beg  you  to  consider,  that  at  the 
time  the  Countess  Czerlaski  left  Camp  Villa  in  dudgeon,  she 
had  only  twenty  pounds  in  her  pocket,  being  about  one-third 
of  the  income  she  possessed  independently  of  her  brother. 
You  will  then  perceive  that  she  was  in  the  extremely  incon¬ 
venient  predicament  of  having  quarrelled,  not  indeed  with  her 
bread  and  cheese,  but  certainly  with  her  chicken  and  tart  — 
a  predicament  all  the  more  inconvenient  to  her,  because  the 
habit  of  idleness  had  quite  unfitted  her  for  earning  those  ne¬ 
cessary  superfluities,  and  because,  with  all  her  fascinations, 
she  had  not  secured  any  enthusiastic  friends  whose  houses 
were  open  to  her,  and  who  were  dying  to  see  her.  Thus  she 
had  completely  checkmated  herself,  unless  she  could  resolve 
on  one  unpleasant  move  —  namely,  to  humble  herself  to  her 
brother,  and  recognize  his  wife.  This  seemed  quite  impossible 
to  her  as  long  as  she  entertained  the  hope  that  he  would  make 
the  first  advances ;  and  in  this  flattering  hope  she  remained 
month  after  month  at  Shepperton  Vicarage,  gracefully  over¬ 
looking  the  deficiencies  of  accommodation,  and  feeling  that 
she  was  really  behaving  charmingly.  “Who  indeed,5’  she 
thought  to  herself,  “  could  do  otherwise,  with  a  lovely,  gentle 
creature  like  Milly  ?  I  shall  really  be  sorry  to  leave  the  poor 
thing.” 

So,  though  she  lay  in  bed  till  ten,  and  came  down  to  a  sepa¬ 
rate  breakfast  at  eleven,  she  kindly  consented  to  dine  as  early 
as  five,  when  a  hot  joint  was  prepared,  which  coldly  furnished 
forth  the  children’s  table  the  next  day ;  she  considerately  pre¬ 
vented  Milly  from  devoting  herself  too  closely  to  the  children, 
by  insisting  on  reading,  talking,  and  walking  with  her ;  and 
she  even  began  to  embroider  a  cap  for  the  next  baby,  which 
must  certainly  be  a  girl,  and  be  named  Caroline. 

After  the  first  month  or  two  of  her  residence  at  the  Vicar- 


64 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


age,  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton  became  aware  —  as,  indeed,  it  was 
unavoidable  that  he  should  —  of  the  strong  disapprobation  it 
drew  upon  him,  and  the  change  of  feeling  towards  him  which 
it  was  producing  in  his  kindest  parishioners.  But,  in  the  first 
place,  he  still  believed  in  the  Countess  as  a  charming  and  in* 
fluential  woman,  disposed  to  befriend  him,  and,  in  any  case, 
he  could  hardly  hint  departure  to  a  lady  guest  who  had  been 
kind  to  him  and  his,  and  who  might  any  day  spontaneously 
announce  the  termination  of  her  visit;  in  the  second  place, 
he  was  conscious  of  his  own  innocence,  and  felt  some  con¬ 
temptuous  indignation  towards  people  who  were  ready  to 
imagine  evil  of  him ;  and,  lastly,  he  had,  as  1  have  already 
intimated,  a  strong  will  of  his  own,  so  that  a  certain  obstinacy 
and  defiance  mingled  itself  with  his  other  feelings  on  the 
subject. 

The  one  unpleasant  consequence  which  was  not  to  be  evaded 
or  counteracted  by  any  mere  mental  state,  was  the  increasing 
drain  on  his  slender  purse  for  household  expenses,  to  meet 
which  the  remittance  he  had  received  from  the  clerical  charity 
threatened  to  be  quite  inadequate.  Slander  may  be  defeated 
by  equanimity ;  but  courageous  thoughts  will  not  pay  your 
baker’s  bill,  and  fortitude  is  nowhere  considered  legal  tender 
for  beef.  Month  after  month  the  financial  aspect  of  the  Rev. 
Amos’s  affairs  became  more  and  more  serious  to  him,  and 
month  after  month,  too,  wore  away  more  and  more  of  that 
armor  of  indignation  and  defiance  with  which  he  had  at  first 
defended  himself  from  the  harsh  looks  of  faces  that  were  once 
the  friendliest. 

But  quite  the  heaviest  pressure  of  the  trouble  fell  on  Milly 
—  on  gentle,  uncomplaining  Milly  —  whose  delicate  body  was 
becoming  daily  less  fit  for  all  the  many  things  that  had  to  be 
done  between  rising  up  and  lying  down.  At  first,  she  thought 
the  Countess’s  visit  would  not  last  long,  and  she  was  quite 
glad  to  incur  extra  exertion  for  the  sake  of  making  her  friend 
comfortable.  I  can  hardly  bear  to  think  of  all  the  rough  work 
she  did  with  those  lovely  hands  —  all  by  the  sly,  without  let¬ 
ting  her  husband  know  anything  about  it,  and  husbands  are 
not  clairvoyant :  how  she  salted  bacon,  ironed  shirts  and  era* 


AMOS  BAKTOft 


65 


vats,  put  patches  on  patches,  and  re-darned  darns.  Then  there 
was  the  task  of  mending  and  eking  Out  baby -linen  in  prospect, 
and  the  problem  perpetually  suggesting  itself  how  she  and 
Nanny  should  manage  when  there  was  another  baby,  as  there 
would  be  before  very  many  months  were  past. 

When  time  glided  on,  and  the  Countess’s  visit  did  not  end, 
Milly  was  not  blind  to  any  phase  of  their  position.  She  knew 
of  the  slander ;  she  was  aware  of  the  keeping  aloof  of  old 
friends  ;  but  these  she  felt  almost  entirely  on  her  husband’s 
account.  A  loving  woman’s  world  lies  within  the  four  walls 
of  her  own  home  ;  and  it  is  only  through  her  husband  that 
she  is  in  any  electric  communication  with  the  world  beyond. 
Mrs.  Simpkins  may  have  looked  scornfully  at  her,  but  baby 
crows  and  holds  out  his  little  arms  none  the  less  blithely  ; 
Mrs.  Tomkins  may  have  left  off  calling  on  her,  but  her 
husband  comes  home  none  the  less  to  receive  her  care  and 
caresses ;  it  has  been  wet  and  gloomy  out  of  doors  to-day,  but 
she  has  looked  well  after  the  shirt  buttons,  has  cut  out  baby’s 
pinafores,  and  half  finished  Willy’s  blouse. 

So  it  was  with  Milly.  She  was  only  vexed  that  her  hus¬ 
band  should  be  vexed  —  only  wounded  because  he  was  miscon¬ 
ceived.  But  the  difficulty  about  ways  and  means  she  felt  in 
quite  a  different  manner.  Her  rectitude  was  alarmed  lest 
they  should  have  to  make  tradesmen  wait  for  their  money ; 
her  motherly  love  dreaded  the  diminution  of  comforts  for  the 
children ;  and  the  sense  of  her  own  failing  health  gave  ex¬ 
aggerated  force  to  these  fears. 

Milly  could  no  longer  shut  her  eyes  to  the  fact,  that  the 
Countess  was  inconsiderate,  if  she  did  not  allow  herself  to 
entertain  severer  thoughts ;  and  she  began  to  feel  that  it 
would  soon  be  a  duty  to  tell  her  frankly  that  they  really  could 
not  afford  to  have  her  visit  farther  prolonged.  But  a  process 
was  going  forward  in  two  other  minds,  which  ultimately  saved 
Milly  from  having  to  perform  this  painful  task. 

In  the  first  place,  the  Countess  was  getting  weary  of  Shep- 
perton  —  weary  of  waiting  for  her  brother’s  overtures  which 
never  came  ;  so,  one  fine  morning,  she  reflected  that  forgive- 
ness  was  a  Christian  duty,  that  a  sister  should  be  placable, 

VOL.  iv  5 


66 


SCENES  OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


that  Mr.  Bridmain  must  feel  the  need  of  her  advice,  to  which 
he  had  been  accustomed  for  three  years,  and  that  very  likely 
u  that  woman  ”  did  n’t  make  the  poor  man  happy.  In  this 
amiable  frame  of  mind  she  wrote  a  very  affectionate  appeal, 
aod  addressed  it  to  Mr.  Bridmain,  through  his  banker. 

Another  mind  that  was  being  wrought  up  to  a  climax  was 
Nanny’s,  the  maid-of-all-work,  who  had  a  warm  heart  and  a 
still  warmer  temper.  Nanny  adored  her  mistress  :  she  had 
been  heard  to  say,  that  she  was  “  ready  to  kiss  the  ground  as 
the  missis  trod  on ;  ”  and  Walter,  she  considered,  was  her 
baby,  of  whom  she  was  as  jealous  as  a  lover.  But  she  had, 
from  the  first,  very  slight  admiration  for  the  Countess  Czer- 
laski.  That  lady,  from  Nanny’s  point  of  view,  was  a  person¬ 
age  always  “  drawed  out  i’  fine  clothes,”  the  chief  result  of 
whose  existence  was  to  cause  additional  bed-making,  carrying 
of  hot  water,  laying  of  table-cloths,  and  cooking  of  dinners. 
It  was  a  perpetually  heightening  “  aggravation  ”  to  Nanny 
that  she  and  her  mistress  had  to  “  slave  ”  more  than  ever, 
because  there  was  this  fine  lady  in  the  house. 

“  An’  she  pays  nothin’  for’t  neither,”  observed  Nanny  to 
Mr.  Jacob  Tomms,  a  young  gentleman  in  the  tailoring  line, 
who  occasionally  —  simply  out  of  a  taste  for  dialogue  —  looked 
into  the  vicarage  kitchen  of  an  evening.  “  I  know  the  master ’s 
shorter  o’  money  than  iver,  an’  it  meks  no  end  o’  difference  i’ 
th’  housekeepin’  —  her  bein’  here,  besides  bein’  obliged  to 
have  a  charwoman  constant.” 

“  There  ’s  fine  stories  i’  the  village  about  her,”  said  Mr. 
Tomms.  “  They  say  as  Muster  Barton ’s  great  wi’  her,  or  else 
she ’d  niver  stop  here.” 

“  Then  they  say  a  passill  o’  lies,  an’  you  ought  to  be  ashamed 
to  go  an’  tell  ’em  o’er  again.  Do  ijou  think  as  the  master,  as 
has  got  a  wife  like  the  missis,  ’ud  go  running  arter  a  stuck-up 
piece  o’  goods  like  that  Countess,  as  isn’t  fit  to  black  the 
missis’s  shoes  ?  I ’m  none  so  fond  o’  the  master,  but  I  know 
better  on  him  nor  that.” 

“  Well,  I  did  n’t  b’lieve  it,”  said  Mr.  Tomms,  humbly. 

“  B’lieve  it  ?  you ’d  ha’  been  a  ninny  if  yer  did.  An’  she ’s 
a  nasty,  stingy  thing,  that  Countess.  She ’s  niver  giv  me  a 


AMOS  BARTON. 


67 


sixpence  nor  an  old  rag  neither,  sin’  here  she ’s  been.  A-lyin’ 
a  bed  an’  a-comin’  down  to  breakfast  when  other  folks  wants 
their  dinner  !  ” 

If  such  was  the  state  of  Nanny’s  mind  as  early  as  the  end 
of  August,  when  this  dialogue  with  Mr.  Tomms  occurred,  you 
may  imagine  what  it  must  have  been  by  the  beginning  of 
November,  and  that  at  that  time  a  very  slight  spark  might 
any  day  cause  the  long-smouldering  auger  to  flame  forth  in 
open  indignation. 

That  spark  happened  to  fall  the  very  morning  that  Mrs. 
Hackit  paid  the  visit  to  Mrs.  Patten,  recorded  in  the  last 
chapter.  Nanny’s  dislike  of  the  Countess  extended  to  the 
innocent  dog  Jet,  whom  she  “  could  n’t  a-bear  to  see  made  a 
fuss  wi’  like  a  Christian.  An’  the  little  ouzel  must  be  washed, 
too,  ivery  Saturday,  as  if  there  was  n’t  children  enoo  to  wash, 
wi’out  washin’  dogs.” 

Now  this  particular  morning  it  happened  that  Milly  was 
quite  too  poorly  to  get  up,  and  Mr.  Barton  observed  to  Nanny, 
on  going  out,  that  he  would  call  and  tell  Mr.  Brand  to  come. 
These  circumstances  were  already  enough  to  make  Nanny 
anxious  and  susceptible.  But  the  Countess,  comfortably  igno¬ 
rant  of  them,  came  down  as  usual  about  eleven  o’clock  to  her 
separate  breakfast,  which  stood  ready  for  her  at  that  hour  in 
the  parlor ;  the  kettle  singing  on  the  hob  that  she  might  make 
her  own  tea.  There  was  a  little  jug  of  cream,  taken  accord¬ 
ing  to  custom  from  last  night’s  milk,  and  specially  saved  for 
the  Countess’s  breakfast.  Jet  always  awaited  his  mistress  at 
her  bedroom  door,  and  it  was  her  habit  to  carry  him  down¬ 
stairs. 

“  Now,  my  little  Jet,”  she  said,  putting  him  down  gently  on 
the  hearth-rug,  “  you  shall  have  a  nice,  nice  breakfast.” 

Jet  indicated  that  he  thought  that  observation  extremely 
pertinent  and  well-timed,  by  immediately  raising  himself  on 
his  hind-legs,  and  the  Countess  emptied  the  cream-jug  into  the 
saucer.  Now  there  was  usually  a  small  jug  of  milk  standing 
on  the  tray  by  the  side  of  the  cream,  and  destined  for  Jet’s 
breakfast,  but  this  morning  Nanny,  being  “moithered,”  had 
forgotten  that  part  of  the  arrangements,  so  that  when  the 


68 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


Countess  had  made  her  tea,  she  perceived  there  was  no  see* 
ond  jug,  and  rang  the  bell.  Nanny  appeared,  looking  very 
red  and  heated  —  the  fact  was,  she  had  been  “  doing  up  ”  the 
kitchen  fire,  and  that  is  a  sort  of  work  which  by  no  means  con¬ 
duces  to  blandness  of  temper, 

“Nanny,  you  have  forgotten  Jet’s  milk;  will  you  bring  me 
some  more  cream,  please  ?  ” 

This  was  just  a  little  too  much  for  Nanny’s  forbearance. 

“  Yes,  I  dare  say.  Here  am  I  wi’  my  hands  full  o’  the  chil¬ 
dren  an’  the  dinner,  and  missis  ill  a-bed,  and  Mr.  Brand 
a-comin’ ;  and  I  must  run  o’er  the  village  to  get  more  cream, 
’cause  you ’ve  give  it  to  that  nasty  little  blackamoor.” 

“  Is  Mrs.  Barton  ill  ?  ” 

“  Ill  —  yes  —  I  should  think  she  is  ill,  and  much  you  care. 
She ’s  likely  to  be  ill,  moithered  as  she  is  from  mornin’  to  night, 
wi’  folks  as  had  better  be  elsewhere.” 

“  What  do  you  mean  by  behaving  in  this  way  ?  ” 

“  Mean  ?  Why  I  mean  as  the  missis  is  a-slavin’  her  life  out 
an’  a-sittin’  up  o’  nights,  for  folks  as  are  better  able  to  wait  of 
her,  i’stid  o’  lyin’  a-bed  an’  doin’  nothin’  all  the  blessed  day, 
but  mek  work.” 

“  Leave  the  room  and  don’t  be  insolent.” 

“  Insolent !  I ’d  better  be  insolent  than  like  what  some  folks 
is,  —  a-livin’  on  other  folks,  an’  bringin’  a  bad  name  on  ’em 
into  the  bargain.” 

Here  Nanny  flung  out  of  the  room,  leaving  the  lady  to  digest 
this  unexpected  breakfast  at  her  leisure. 

The  Countess  was  stunned  for  a  few  minutes,  but  when  she 
began  to  recall  Nanny’s  words,  there  was  no  possibility  of 
avoiding  very  unpleasant  conclusions  from  them,  or  of  failing 
to  see  her  position  at  the  Vicarage  in  an  entirely  new  light. 
The  interpretation  too  of  Nanny’s  allusion  to  a  “  bad  name  ” 
did  not  lie  out  of  the  reach  of  the  Countess’s  imagination,  and 
she  saw  the  necessity  of  quitting  Shepperton  without  delay. 
Still,  she  would  like  to  wait  for  her  brother’s  letter- —  no  —  she 
would  ask  Milly  to  forward  it  to  her  —  still  better,  she  would 
go  at  once  to  London,  inquire  her  brother’s  address  at  his 
banker’s,  and  go  to  see  him  without  preliminary. 


AMOS  BARTON. 


69 


She  went  up  to  Milly’s  room,  and,  after  kisses  and  inquiries, 
said — “I  find,  on  consideration,  dear  Hilly,  from  the  letter  I 
had  yesterday,  that  I  must  bid  you  good-by  and  go  up  to  Lon¬ 
don  at  once.  But  you  must  not  let  me  leave  you  ill,  you 
naughty  thing.” 

“  Oh,  no,”  said  Milly,  who  felt  as  if  a  load  had  been  taken 
off  her  back,  “  I  shall  be  very  well  in  an  hour  or  two.  Indeed^ 
I  ’m  much  better  now.  You  will  want  me  to  help  you  to  pack. 
But  you  won’t  go  for  two  or  three  days  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  I  must  go  to-morrow.  But  I  shall  not  let  you  help 
me  to  pack,  so  don’t  entertain  any  unreasonable  projects,  but 
lie  still.  Mr.  Brand  is  coming,  Nanny  says.” 

The  news  was  not  an  unpleasant  surprise  to  Mr.  Barton 
when  he  came  home,  though  he  was  able  to  express  more  regret 
at  the  idea  of  parting  than  Milly  could  summon  to  her  lips. 
He  retained  more  of  his  original  feeling  for  the  Countess  than 
Milly  did,  for  women  never  betray  themselves  to  men  as  they 
do  to  each  other ;  and  the  Rev.  Amos  had  not  a  keen  instinct 
for  character.  But  he  felt  that  he  was  being  relieved  from  a 
difficulty,  and  in  the  way  that  was  easiest  for  him.  Is  either  he 
nor  Milly  suspected  that  it  was  Nanny  who  had  cut  the  knot 
for  them,  for  the  Countess  took  care  to  give  no  sign  on  that 
subject.  As  for  Nanny,  she  was  perfectly  aware  of  the  relation 
between  cause  and  effect  in  the  affair,  and  secretly  chuckled 
over  her  outburst  of  u  sauce  ”  as  the  best  morning  s  work  she 
had  ever  done. 

So,  on  Friday  morning,  a  fly  was  seen  standing  at  the  Vicar¬ 
age  gate  with  the  Countess’s  boxes  packed  upon  it ;  and  pres 
ently  that  lady  herself  was  seen  getting  into  the  vehicle. 
After  a  last  shake  of  the  hand  to  Mr.  Barton,  and  last  kisses  co 
Milly  and  the  children,  the  door  was  closed ;  and  as  the  fly  rolled 
off,  the  little  party  at  the  Vicarage  gate  caught  a  last  glimpse 
of  the  handsome  Countess  leaning  and  waving  kisses  from  the 
carriage  window.  Jet’s  little  black  phiz  was  also  seen,  and 
doubtless  he  had  his  thoughts  and  feelings  on  the  occasion,  but 
he  kept  them  strictly  within  his  own  bosom. 

The  schoolmistress  opposite  witnessed  this  departure,  and 
lost  no  time  in  telling  it  to  the  schoolmaster,  who  again  ccm- 


70  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

immicated  the  news  to  the  landlord  of  “  The  Jolly  Colliers,* 
at  the  close  of  the  morning  school-hours.  Ranny  poured  the 
joyful  tidings  into  the  ear  of  Mr.  Farquliar’s  footman,  who 
happened  to  call  with  a  letter,  and  Mr.  Brand  carried  them  to 
all  the  patients  he  visited  that  morning,  after  calling  on  Mrs. 
Barton.  So  that,  before  Sunday,  it  was  very  generally  known 

in  Shepperton  parish  that  the  Countess  Czerlaski  had  left  the 
Vicarage. 

The  Countess  had  left,  but  alas,  the.  bills  she  had  con¬ 
tributed  to  swell  still  remained;  so  did  the  exiguity  of  the 
children’s  clothing,  which  also  was  partly  an  indirect  conse¬ 
quence.  of .  her  presence ;  and  so,  too,  did  the  coolness  and 
alienation  in  the  parishioners,  which  could  not  at  once  vanish 
befoie  the  fact  of  her  departure.  The  Rev.  Amos  was  not 
exculpated  —  the  past  was  not  expunged.  But  what  was 
worse  than  all,  Milly’s  health  gave  frequent  cause  for  alarm, 
and  the  prospect  of  baby’s  birth  was  overshadowed  by  more 
than  the  usual  fears.  The  birth  came  prematurely,  about 
six  weeks  after  the  Countess’s  departure,  but  Mr.  Brand  gave 
favorable  reports  to  all  inquirers  on  the  following  day,  which 
was  Saturday.  On  Sunday,  after  morning  service,  Mrs. 
Hackit  called  at  the  Vicarage  to  inquire  how  Mrs.  Barton  was, 
and  was  invited  up-stairs  to  see  her.  Milly  lay  placid  and 
lovely  in  her  feebleness,  and  held  out  her  hand  to  Mrs. 
Hackit  with  a  beaming  smile.  It  was  very  pleasant  to  her 
to  see  her  old  friend  unreserved  and  cordial  once  more.  The 
seven  months’  baby  was  very  tiny  and  very  red,  but  “hand¬ 
some  is  that  handsome  does  ”  —  he  was  pronounced  to  be 
u  doing  well,”  and  Mrs.  Hackit  went  home  gladdened  at 
heart  to  think  that  the  perilous  hour  was  over. 


AMOS  BARTON. 


71 


CHAPTER,  VIIL 

The  following  Wednesday,  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hackit  were 
seated  comfortably  by  their  bright  hearth,  enjoying  the  long 
afternoon  afforded  by  an  early  dinner,  Rachel,  the  housemaid, 
came  in  and  said  — 

“  If  you  please  ’m,  the  shepherd  says,  have  you  heard  as 
Mrs.  Barton ’s  wuss,  and  not  expected  to  live  ?  ” 

Mrs.  Hackit  turned  pale,  and  hurried  out  to  question  the 
shepherd,  who,  she  found,  had  heard  the  sad  news  at  an  ale¬ 
house  in  the  village.  Mr.  Hackit  followed  her  out  and  said, 
“  You ’d  better  have  the  pony-chaise,  and  go  directly.” 

“  Yes,”  said  Mrs.  Hackit,  too  much  overcome  to  utter  any 
exclamations.  “  Rachel,  come  an’  help  me  on  wi’  my  things.” 
When  her  husband  was  wrapping  her  cloak  round  her  feet  iir 
the  pony-chaise,  she  said  — 

“  If  I  don’t  come  home  to-night,  I  shall  send  back  the  pony- 
chaise,  and  you  ’ll  know  I ’m  wanted  there.” 

“Yes,  yes.” 

It  was  a  bright  frosty  day,  and  by  the  time  Mrs.  Hackit 
arrived  at  the  Vicarage,  the  sun  was  near  its  setting.  There 
was  a  carriage  and  pair  standing  at  the  gate,  which  she 
recognized  as  Hr.  Madeley’s,  the  physician  from  Bother  by. 
She  entered  at  the  kitchen  door  that  she  might  avoid  knock¬ 
ing,  and  quietly  questioned  Nanny.  No  one  was  in  the 
kitchen,  but,  passing  on,  she  saw  the  sitting-room  door  open, 
and  Nanny,  with  Walter  in  her  arms,  removing  the  knives 
and  forks,  which  had  been  laid  for  dinner  three  hours  ago. 

“  Master  says  he  can’t  eat  no  dinner,”  was  Nanny’s  first 
word.  “He’s  never  tasted  nothin’  sin’  yesterday  morning 
but  a  cup  o’  tea.” 

“When  was  your  missis  took  worse 

“O’  Monday  night.  They  sent  foe  Hr.  Madeley  i’ 
middle  o’  the  day  yisterday,  an’  he ’s  here  again  now.” 

“Is  the  baby  alive  ?  ” 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


79 

€  jU 

“  No,  it  died  last  night.  The  children  ’s  all  at  Mrs.  Bond’s. 
She  come  and  took  ’em  away  last  night,  but  the  master  says 
they  must  be  fetched  soon.  He’s  up-stairs  now,  wi’  Hr. 
Madeley  and  Mr.  Brand.” 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Hackit  heard,  the  sound  of  a  heavy, 
slow  foot,  in  the  passage ;  and  presently  Amos  Barton  entered, 
with  dry  despairing  eyes,  haggard  and  unshaven.  He  ex¬ 
pected  to  find  the  sitting-room  as  he  left  it,  with  nothing  to 
meet  his  eyes  but  Milly’s  work-basket  in  the  corner  of  the 
sofa,  and  the  children’s  toys  overturned  in  the  bow-window. 
But  when  he  saw  Mrs.  Hackit  come  towards  him  with  answer¬ 
ing  sorrow  in  her  face,  the  pent-up  fountain  of  tears  was 
opened ;  he  threw  himself  on  the  sofa,  hid  his  face,  and 
sobbed  aloud. 

“  Bear  up,  Mr.  Barton,”  Mrs.  Hackit  ventured  to  say  at 
last ;  “  bear  up,  for  the  sake  o.’  them  dear  children.” 

“  The  children,”  said  Amos,  starting  up.  66  They  must  be 
sent  for.  Some  one  must  fetch  them.  Milly  will  want 
to  —  ” 

He  could  n’t  finish  the  sentence,  but  Mrs.  Hackit  under¬ 
stood  him,  and  said,  “I’ll  send  the  man  with  the  pony- 
carriage  for  ’em.” 

She  went  out  to  give  the  order,  and  encountered  Dr.  Made- 
ley  and  Mr.  Brand,  who  were  just  going. 

Mr.  Brand  said :  “  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  are  here,  Mrs 
Hackit.  No  time  must  be  lost  in  sending  for  the  children. 
Mrs.  Barton  wants  to  see  them.” 

“  Do  you  quite  give  her  up,  then  ?  ” 

“  She  can  hardly  live  through  the  night.  She  begged  us  to 
tell  her  how  long  she  had  to  live ;  and  then  asked  for  the 
children.” 

The  pony-carriage  was  sent ;  and  Mrs.  Hackit,  returning  to 
Mr.  Barton,  said  she  should  like  to  go  up-stairs  now.  He 
went  up-stairs  with  her  and  opened  the  door.  The  chamber 
fronted  the  west ;  the  sun  was  just  setting,  and  the  red  light 
fell  full  upon  the  bed,  where  Milly  lay  with  the  hand  of  death 
visibly  upon  her.  The  feather-bed  had  been  removed,  and  she 
lay  low  on  a  mattress,  with  her  head  slightly  raised  by  pil- 


AMOS  BARTON. 


73 


lows.  Her  long  fair  neck  seemed  to  be  struggling  with  a 
painful  effort;  her  features  were  pallid  and  pinched,  and  her 
eyes  were  closed.  There  was  no  one  in  the  room  but  the 
nurse,  and  the  mistress  of  the  free  school,  who  had  come  to 
give  her  help  from  the  beginning  of  the  change. 

Amos  and  Mrs.  Hackit  stood  beside  the  bed,  and  Milly 
opened  her  eyes. 

“  My  darling,  Mrs.  Hackit  is  come  to  see  you.” 

Milly  smiled  and  looked  at  her  with  that  strange,  far-off 
look  which  belongs  to  ebbing  life. 

"Are  the  children  coming?”  she  said,  painfully. 

“  Yes,  they  will  be  here  directly.” 

She  closed  her  eyes  again. 

Presently  the  pony-carriage  was  heard ;  and  Amos,  motion¬ 
ing  to  Mrs.  Hackit  to  follow  him,  left  the  room.  On  their 
way  down-stairs,  she  suggested  that  the  carriage  should  remain 
to  take  them  away  again  afterwards,  and  Amos  assented. 

There  they  stood  in  the  melancholy  sitting-room _ the 

five  sweet  children,  from  Patty  to  Chubby  — all,  with  their 
mothers  eyes  all,  except  Patty,  looking  up  with  a  vague 
fear  at  their  father  as  he  entered.  Patty  understood  the  great 
sorrow  that  was  come  upon  them,  and  tried  to  check  her  sobs 
as  she  heard  her  papa’s  footsteps. 

“My  children,”  said  Amos,  taking  Chubby  in  his  arms, 
“  G°d  is  going  to  take  away  your  dear  mamma  from  us.  She 
wants  to  see  you  to  say  good-by.  You  must  try  to  be  very 
good  and  not  cry.” 

He  could  say  no  more,  but  turned  round  to  see  if  Nanny  was 
there  with  Walter,  and  then  led  the  way  up-stairs,  leading 
Dickey  with  the  other  hand.  Mrs.  Hackit  followed  with 
Sophy  and  Patty,  and  then  came  Nanny  with  Walter  and 
Fred. 

It  seemed  as  if  Milly  had  heard  the  little  footsteps  on  the 
stairs,  for  when  Amos  entered  her  eyes  were  wide  open,  eagerly 
looking  towards  the  door.  They  all  stood  by  the  bedside  — 
Amos  nearest  to  her,  holding  Chubby  and  Dickey.  But  she 
motioned  for  Patty  to  come  first,  and  clasping  the  poor  pale 
child  by  the  hand,  said  — 


74 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


“  Patty,  I ’m  going  away  from  you.  Love  your  papa.  Com¬ 
fort  him  ;  and  take  care  of  your  little  brothers  and  sisters, 
God  will  help  you.” 

Patty  stood  perfectly  quiet,  and  said,  “Yes,  mamma.” 

The  mother  motioned  with  her  pallid  lips  for  the  dear  child 
to  lean  towards  her  and  kiss  her ;  and  then  Patty’s  great  an¬ 
guish  overcame  her,  and  she  burst  into  sobs.  Amos  drew  her 
towards  him  and  pressed  her  head  gently  to  him,  while  Milly 
beckoned  Fred  and  Sophy,  and  said  to  them  more  faintly  — 

“  Patty  will  try  to  be  your  mamma  when  I  am  gone,  my 
darlings.  You  will  be  good  and  not  vex  her.” 

■  They  leaned  towards  her,  and  she  stroked  their  fair  heads, 
and  kissed  their  tear-stained  cheeks.  They  cried  because  mam¬ 
ma  was  ill  and  papa  looked  so  unhappy,  but  they  thought, 
perhaps  next  week  things  would  be  as  they  used  to  be  again. 

The  little  ones  were  lifted  on  the  bed  to  kiss  her.  Little 
Walter  said,  “  Mamma,  mamma,”  and  stretched  out  his  fat 
arms  and  smiled ;  and  Chubby  seemed  gravely  wondering ; 
but  Dickey,  who  had  been  looking  fixedly  at  her,  with  lip 
hanging  down,  ever  since  he  came  into  the  room,  now  seemed 
suddenly  pierced  with  the  idea  that  mamma  was  going  away 
somewhere ;  his  little  heart  swelled,  and  he  cried  aloud. 

Then  Mrs.  Hackit  and  Nanny  took  them  all  away.  Patty 
at  first  begged  to  stay  at  home  and  not  go  to  Mrs.  Bond’s 
again ;  but  when  Nanny  reminded  her  that  she  had  better  go 
to  take  care  of  the  younger  ones,  she  submitted  at  once,  and 
they  were  all  packed  in  the  pony-carriage  once  more. 

Milly  kept  her  eyes  shut  for  some  time  after  the  children 
were  gone.  Amos  had  sunk  on  his  knees,  and  was  holding  her 
hand  while  he  watched  her  face.  By-and-by  she  opened  her 
eyes,  and  drawing  him  close  to  her,  whispered  slowly  — 

“  My  dear  —  dear  - —  husband  —  you  have  been  —  very  — • 
good  to  me.  You  —  have  - —  made  me  —  very  —  happy.” 

She  spoke  no  more  for  many  hours.  They  watched  her 
breathing  becoming  more  and  more  difficult,  until  evening 
deepened  into  night,  and  until  midnight  was  past.  About 
half-past  twelve  she  seemed  to  be  trying  to  speak,  and  they 
leaned  to  catch  her  words. 


AMOS  BARTON. 


75 


*Music  —  music  —  did  n’t  you  hear  it  ? 99 
Amos  knelt  by  the  bed  and  held  her  hand  in  his.  He  did 
not  believe  in  his  sorrow.  It  was  a  bad  dream.  He  did  not 
know  when  she  was  gone.  But  Mr.  Brand,  whom  Mrs.  Hackit 
had  sent  for  before  twelve  o’clock,  thinking  that  Mr.  Barton 
might  probably  need  his  help,  now  came  up  to  him,  and  said  — 
“She  feels  no  more  pain  now.  Come,  my  dear  sir,  come 
with  me.” 

“She  isn’t  dead?”  shrieked  the  poor  desolate  man,  strug¬ 
gling  to  shake  off  Mr.  Brand,  who  had  taken  him  by  the  arm. 
But  his  weary  weakened  frame  was  not  equal  to  resistance, 

and  he  was  dragged  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

They  laid  her  in  the  grave  —  the  sweet  mother  with  her 
baby  in  her  arms  —  while  the  Christmas  snow  lay  thick  upon 
the  graves.  It  was  Mr.  Cleves  who  buried  her.  On  the  first 
news  of  Mr.  Barton’s  calamity,  he  had  ridden  over  from  Trip- 
plegate  to  beg  that  he  might  be  made  of  some  use,  and  his 
silent  grasp  of  Amos’s  hand  had  penetrated  like  the  painful 
thrill  of  life-recovering  warmth  to  the  poor  benumbed  heart  of 
the  stricken  man. 

The  snow  lay  thick  upon  the  graves,  and  the  day  was  cold 
and  dreary ;  but  there  was  many  a  sad  eye  watching  that 
black  procession  as  it  passed  from  the  Vicarage  to  the  church, 
and  from  the  church  to  the  open  grave.  There  were  men  and 
women  standing  in  that  churchyard  who  had  bandied  vulgar 
jests  about  their  pastor,  and  who  had  lightly  charged  him  with 
sin;  but  now,  when  they  saw  him  following  the  coffin,  pale 
and  haggard,  he  was  consecrated  anew  by  his  great  sorrow, 
and  they  looked  at  him  with  respectful  pity. 

All  the  children  were  there,  for  Amos  had  willed  it  so,  think 
ing  that  some  dim  memory  of  that  sacred  moment  might  re 


76 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


main  even  with  little  Walter,  and  link  itself  with  what  he 
would  hear  of  his  sweet  mother  in  after  years.  He  himself 
led  Patty  and  Dickey ;  then  came  Sophy  and  Fred ;  Mr.  Brand 
had  begged  to  carry  Chubby,  and  Nanny  followed  with  Wal¬ 
ter.  They  made  a  circle  round  the  grave  while  the  coffin  was 
being  lowered.  Patty  alone  of  all  the  children  f^lt  that 
mamma  was  in  that  coffin,  and  that  a  new  and  sadder  life  had 
begun  for  papa  and  herself.  She  was  pale  and  trembling,  but 
she  clasped  his  hand  more  firmly  as  the  coffin  went  down,  and 
gave  no  sob.  Fred  and  Sophy,  though  they  were  only  two  and 
three  years  younger,  and  though  they  had  seen  mamma  in  her 
coffin,  seemed  to  themselves  to  be  looking  at  some  strange 
show.  They  had  not  learned  to  decipher  that  terrible  hand¬ 
writing  of  human  destiny,  illness  and  death.  Dickey  had 
rebelled  against  his  black  clothes,  until  he  was  told  that  it 
would  be  naughty  to  mamma  not  to  put  them  on,  when  he  at 
once  submitted;  and  now,  though  he  had  heard  Nanny  say 
that  mamma  was  in  heaven,  he  had  a  vague  notion  that  she 
womd  come  home  again  to-morrow,  and  say  he  had  been  a 
good  boy  and  let  him  empty  her  work-box.  He  stood  close  to 
his  father,  with  great  rosy  cheeks,  and  wide-open  blue  eyes, 
looking  first  up  at  Mr.  Cleves  and  then  down  at  the  coffin,  and 
thinking  he  and  Chubby  would  play  at  that  when  they  got 
home. 

The  burial  was  over,  and  Amos  turned  with  his  children  to 
re-enter  the  house — -the  house  where,  an  hour  ago,  Milly’s 
dear  body  lay,  where  the  windows  were  half-darkened,  and 
sorrow  seemed  to  have  a  hallowed  precinct  for  itself,  shut  out 
from  the  world.  But  now  she  was  gone ;  the  broad  snow- 
reflected  daylight  was  in  all  the  rooms  ;  the  Vicarage  again 
seemed  part  of  the  common  working-day  world,  and  Amos,  for 
the  first  time,  felt  that  he  was  alone  —  that  day  after  day, 
month  after  month,  year  after  year,  would  have  to  be  lived 
through  without  Milly’s  love.  Spring  would  come,  and  she 
would  not  be  there ;  summer,  and  she  would  not  be  there  ;  and 
he  would  never  have  her  again  with  him  by  the  fireside  in 
the  long  evenings.  The  seasons  all  seemed  irksome  to  his 
thoughts;  and  how  dreary  the  sunshiny  days  that  would  be 


AMOS  BARTON. 


•n 


sure  to  come !  She  was  gone  from  him ;  and  he  could  never 
show  her  his  love  any  more,  never  make  up  for  omissions  in 
the  past  by  filling  future  days  with  tenderness. 

Oh  the  anguish  of  that  thought  that  we  can  never  atone  to 
our  dead  for  the  stinted  affection  we  gave  them,  for  the  light 
answers  we  returned  to  their  plaints  or  their  pleadings,  for 
the  little  reverence  we  showed  to  that  sacred  human  soul  that 
lived  so  close  to  us,  and  was  the  divinest  thing  God  had  given 
us  to  know ! 

Amos  Barton  had  been  an  affectionate  husband,  and  while 
Milly  was  with  him,  he  was  never  visited  by  the  thought  that 
perhaps  his  sympathy  with  her  was  not  quick  and  watchful 
enough ;  but  now  he  re-lived  all  their  life  together,  with  that 
terrible  keenness  of  memory  and  imagination  which  bereave¬ 
ment  gives,  and  he  felt  as  if  his  very  love  needed  a  pardon  for 
its  poverty  and  selfishness. 

No  outward  solace  could  counteract  the  bitterness  of  this 
inward  woe.  But  outward  solace  came.  Cold  faces  looked 
kind  again,  and  parishioners  turned  over  in  their  minds  what 
they  could  best  do  to  help  their  pastor.  Mr.  Oldinport  wrote 
to  express  his  sympathy,  and  enclosed  another  twenty-pound 
note,  begging  that  he  might  be  permitted  to  contribute  in  this 
way  to  the  relief  of  Mr.  Barton’s  mind  from  pecuniary  anxie¬ 
ties,  under  the  pressure  of  a  grief  which  all  his  parishioners 
must  share ;  and  offering  his  interest  towards  placing  the  two 
eldest  girls  in  a  school  expressly  founded  for  clergymen’s 
daughters.  Mr.  Cleves  succeeded  in  collecting  thirty  pounds 
among  his  richer  clerical  brethren,  and,  adding  ten  pounds 
himself,  sent  the  sum  to  Amos,  with  the  kindest  and  most 
delicate  words  of  Christian  fellowship  and  manly  friendship. 
Miss  Jackson  forgot  old  grievances,  and  came  to  stay  some 
months  with  Milly’s  children,  bringing  such  material  aid  as  she 
could  spare  from  her  small  income.  These  were  substantia] 
helps,  which  relieved  Amos  from  the  pressure  of  his  money 
difficulties  ;  and  the  friendly  attentions,  the  kind  pressure  of 
the  hand,  the  cordial  looks  he  met  with  everywhere  in  his 
parish,  made  him  feel  that  the  fatal  frost  'which  had  settled 
on  his  pastoral  duties,  during  the  Countess’s  residence  at  the 


,g  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

Vicarage,  was  completely  thawed,  and  that  the  hearts  of  hi? 
parishioners  were  once  more  open  to  him. 

No  one  breathed  the  Countess’s  name  now;  for  Milly’s 
memory  hallowed  her  hnsband,  as  of  old  the  place  was  hah 
lowed  on  which  an  angel  from  God  had  alighted. 

When  the  spring  came,  Mrs.  Hackit  begged  that  she  might 
have  Dickey  to  stay  with  her,  and  great  was  the  enlargement 
of  Dickey’s  experience  from  that  visit.  Every  morning  he 
was  allowed  —  being  well  wrapt  up  as  to  his  chest  by  Mrs. 
Hackit’s  own  hands,  but  very  bare  and  red  as  to  his  legs  —  to 
run  loose  in  the  cow  and  poultry  yard,  to  persecute  the  turkey- 
cock  by  satirical  imitations  of  his  gobble-gobble,  and  to  put 
difficult  questions  to  the  groom  as  to  the  reasons  why  horses 
had  four  legs,  and  other  transcendental  matters.  Then  Mr. 
Hackit  would  take  Dickey  up  on  horseback  when  he  rode 
round  his  farm,  and  Mrs.  Hackit  had  a  large  plum-cake  in  cut, 
ready  to  meet  incidental  attacks  of  hunger.  So  that  Dickey 
had  considerably  modified  his  views  as  to  the  desirability  of 
Mrs.  Hackit’s  kisses. 

The  Misses  Farquhar  made  particular  pets  of  Fred  and 
Sophy,  to  whom  they  undertook  to  give  lessons  twice  a-week 
in  writing  and  geography ;  and  Mrs.  Farquhar  devised  many 
treats  for  the  little  ones.  Patty’s  treat  was  to  stay  at  home, 
or  walk  about  with  her  papa ;  and  when  he  sat  by  the  fire  in 
an  evening,  after  the  other  children  were  gone  to  bed,  she 
would  bring  a  stool,  and,  placing  it  against  his  feet,  would  sit 
down  upon  it  and  lean  her  head  against  his  knee.  Then  his 
hand  would  rest  on  that  fair  head,  and  he  would  feel  that 
Milly’s  love  was  not  quite  gone  out  of  his  life. 

So  the  time  wore  on  till  it  was  May  again,  and  the  church 
was  quite  finished  and  reopened  in  all  its  new  splendor,  and 
Mr.  Barton  was  devoting  himself  with  more  vigor  than  ever 
to  his  parochial  duties.  But  one  morning  —  it  was  a  very 
bright  morning,  and  evil  tidings  sometimes  like  to  fly  in  the 
finest  weather  —  there  came  a  letter  for  Mr.  Barton,  addressed 
in  the  Vicar’s  handwriting.  Amos  opened  it  with  some  anxiety 

_ somehow  or  other  he  had  a  presentiment  of  evil.  The  letter 

contained  the  announcement  that  Mr.  Carpe  had  resolved  on 


AMOS  BARTON. 


T9 


coming  to  reside  at  Shepperton,  and  that,  consequently,  in  six 
months  from  that  time  Mr.  Barton’s  duties  as  curate  in  that 
parish  would  be  closed. 

Oh,  it  was  hard  !  Just  when  Shepperton  had  become  the 
place  where  he  most  wished  to  stay  —  where  he  had  friends 
who  knew  his  sorrows  —  where  he  lived  close  to  Milly’s  grave. 
To  part  from  that  grave  seemed  like  parting  with  Milly  a 
second  time ;  for  Amos  was  one  who  clung  to  all  the  material 
links  between  his  mind  and  the  past.  His  imagination  was 
not  vivid,  and  required  the  stimulus  of  actual  perception. 

It  roused  some  bitter  feeling,  too,  to  think  that  Mr.  Carpe’s 
wish  to  reside  at  Shepperton  was  merely  a  pretext  for  remov¬ 
ing  Mr.  Barton,  in  order  that  he  might  ultimately  give  the 
curacy  of  Shepperton  to  his  own  brother-in-law,  who  was 
known  to  be  wanting  a  new  position. 

Still,  it  must  be  borne ;  and  the  painful  business  of  seeking 
another  curacy  must  be  set  about  without  loss  of  time.  After 
the  lapse  of  some  months,  Amos  was  obliged  to  renounce  the 
hope  of  getting  one  at  all  near  Shepperton,  and  he  at  length 
resigned  himself  to  accepting  one  in  a  distant  county.  The 
parish  was  in  a  large  manufacturing  town,  where  his  walks 
would  lie  among  noisy  streets  and  dingy  alleys,  and  where  the 
children  would  have  no  garden  to  play  in,  no  pleasant  farm¬ 
houses  to  visit. 

It  was  another  blow  inflicted  on  the  bruised  man. 


CHAPTER  X. 

At  length  the  dreaded  week  was  come,  when  Amos  and  his 
children  must  leave  Shepperton.  There  was  general  regret 
among  the  parishioners  at  his  departure :  not  that  any  one  of 
them  thought  his  spiritual  gifts  pre-eminent,  or  was  conscious 
of  great  edification  from  his  ministry.  But  his  recent  troubles 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


SO 

had  called  out  their  better  sympathies,  and  that  is  always  a 
source  of  love.  Amos  failed  to  touch  the  spring  of  goodness 
by  his  sermons,  but  he  touched  it  effectually  by  his  sorrows ; 
and  there  was  now  a  real  bond  between  him  and  his  flock. 

“  My  heart  aches  for  them  poor  motherless  children,”  said 
Mrs.  Hackit  to  her  husband,  “  a-going  among  strangers,  and 
into  a  nasty  town,  where  there ’s  no  good  victuals  to  be  had, 
and  you  must  pay  dear  to  get  bad  uns.” 

Mrs.  Hackit  had  a  vague  notion  of  a  town  life  as  a  combina¬ 
tion  of  dirty  backyards,  measly  pork,  and  dingy  linen. 

The  same  sort  of  sympathy  was  strong  among  the  poorer 
class  of  parishioners.  Old  stiff-jointed  Mr.  Tozer,  who  was 
still  able  to  earn  a  little  by  gardening  “jobs,”  stopped  Mrs. 
Cramp,  the  charwoman,  on  her  way  home  from  the  Vicarage* 
where  she  had  been  helping  Nanny  to  pack  up  the  day  before 
the  departure,  and  inquired  very  particularly  into  Mr.  Barton’s 
prospects. 

“  Ah,  poor  mon,”  he  was  heard  to  say,  “  I ’m  sorry  for  un. 
He  hed  n’t  much  here,  but  he  ’ll  be  wuss  off  theer.  Half  a 
loaf ’s  better  nor  ne’er  un.” 

The  sad  good-byes  had  all  been  said  before  that  last  evening ; 
and  after  all  the  packing  was  done  and  all  the  arrangements 
were  made,  Amos  felt  the  oppression  of  that  blank  interval  in 
which  one  has  nothing  left  to  think  of  but  the  dreary  future 
—  the  separation  from  the  loved  and  familiar,  and  the  chilling 
entrance  on  the  new  and  strange.  In  every  parting  there  is 
an  image  of  death. 

Soon  after  ten  o’clock,  when  he  had  sent  Nanny  to  bed,  that 
she  might  have  a  good  night’s  rest  before  the  fatigues  of  the 
morrow,  he  stole  softly  out  to  pay  a  last  visit  to  Milly’s  grave. 
It  was  a  moonless  night,  but  the  sky  was  thick  with  stars,  and 
their  light  was  enough  to  show  that  the  grass  had  grown  long 
on  the  grave,  and  that  there  was  a  tombstone  telling  in  bright 
letters,  on  a  dark  ground,  that  beneath  were  deposited  the 
remains  of  Amelia,  the  beloved  wife  of  Amos  Barton,  who 
died  in  the  thirty-fifth  year  of  her  age,  leaving  a  husband 
and  six  children  to  lament  her  loss.  The  final  words  of  thf 
inscription  were,  “  Thy  will  be  done.” 


AMOS  BARTON. 


81 


The  husband  was  now  advancing  towards  the  dear  mound 
from  which  he  was  so  soon  to  be  parted,  perhaps  forever.  He 
stood  a  few  minutes  reading  over  and  over  again  the  words  on 
the  tombstone,  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  all  the  happy  and 
unhappy  past  was  a  reality.  For  love  is  frightened  at  the 
intervals  of  insensibility  and  callousness  that  encroach  by 
little  and  little  on  the  dominion  of  grief,  and  it  makes  efforts 
to  recall  the  keenness  of  the  first  anguish. 

Gradually,  as  his  eye  dwelt  on  the  words,  “  Amelia,  the 
beloved  wife,”  the  waves  of  feeling  swelled  within  his  soul, 
and  he  threw  himself  on  the  grave,  clasping  it  with  his  arms, 
and  kissing  the  cold  turf. 

“  Milly,  Milly,  dost  thou  hear  me  ?  I  did  n’t  love  thee 
enough  —  I  was  n’t  tender  enough  to  thee  —  but  I  think  of  it 
all  now.” 

The  sobs  came  and  choked  his  utterance,  and  the  warm 
tears  fell. 


CONCLUSION. 

Only  once  again  in  his  life  has  Amos  Barton  visited  Milly’? 
grave.  It  was  in  the  calm  and  softened  light  of  an  autumna1 
afternoon,  and  he  was  not  alone.  He  held  on  his  arm  a  young 
woman,  with  a  sweet,  grave  face,  which  strongly  recalled  the 
expression  of  Mrs.  Barton’s,  but  was  less  lovely  in  form  and 
color.  She  was  about  thirty,  but  there  were  some  premature 
lines  round  her  mouth  and  eyes,  which  told  of  early  anxiety. 

Amos  himself  was  much  changed.  His  thin  circlet  of  hair 
was  nearly  white,  and  his  walk  was  no  longer  firm  and  upright. 
But  his  glance  was  calm,  and  even  cheerful,  and  his  neat  linen 
told  of  a  woman’s  care.  Milly  did  not  take  all  her  love  from 
the  earth  when  she  died.  She  had  left  some  of  it  in  Patty’s 
heart. 

All  the  other  children  were  now  grown  up,  and  had  gone 

their  several  ways.  Dickey,  you  will  be  glad  to  hear,  had 

* 


VOL.  IV. 


82 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


shown  remarkable  talents  as  an  engineer.  His  cheeks  are 
still  ruddy,  in  spite  of  mixed  mathematics,  and  his  eyes  are 
still  large  and  blue;  but  in  other  respects  his  person  would 
present  no  marks  of  identification  for  his  friend  Mrs.  Hackit, 
if  she  were  to  see  him ;  especially  now  that  her  eyes  must  be 
grown  very  dim,  with  the  wear  of  more  than  twenty  additional 
years.  He  is  nearly  six  feet  high,  and  has  a  proportionately 
broad  chest;  he  wears  spectacles,  and  rubs  his  large  white 
hands  through  a  mass  of  shaggy  brown  hair.  But  I  am  sure 
vou  have  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Richard  Barton  is  a  thoroughly 
good  fellow,  as  well  as  a  man  of  talent,  and  you  will  be  glad 
any  day  to  shake  hands  with  him,  for  his  own  sake  as  well  as 
his  mother’s. 

Patty  alone  remains  by  her  father’s  side,  and  makes  the 
evening  sunshine  of  his  life. 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIF^. 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

When  old  Mr.  Gilfil  died,  thirty  years  ago,  there  was  general 
sorrow  in  Shepperton  ;  and  if  black  cloth  had  not  been  hung 
round  the  pulpit  and  reading-desk,  by  order  of  his  nephew 
and  principal  legatee,  the  parishioners  would  certainly  have 
subscribed  the  necessary  sum  out  of  their  own  pockets,  rather 
than  allow  such  a  tribute  of  respect  to  be  wanting.  All  the. 
farmers’  wives  brought  out  their  black  bombazines  ;  and  Mrs. 
Jennings,  at  the  Wharf,  by  appearing  the  first  Sunday  after 
Mr.  Gilfil’s  death  in  her  salmon  colored  ribbons  and  green 
shawl,  excited  the  severest  remark.  To  be  sure,  Mrs.  Jennings 
was  a  new-comer,  and  town-bred,  so  that  she  could  hardly  be 
expected  to  have  very  clear  notions  of  what  was  proper ;  but 
as  Mrs.  Higgins  observed  in  an  undertone  to  Mrs.  Parrot  when 
they  were  coming  out  of  church,  “  Her  husband,  who ’d  been 
born  i’  the  parish,  might  ha’  told  her  better.”  And  unreadi¬ 
ness  to  put  on  black  on  all  available  occasions,  or  too  great  an 
alacrity  in  putting  it  off,  argued,  in  Mrs.  Higgins’s  opinion,  a 
dangerous  levity  of  character,  and  an  unnatural  insensibility 
to  the  essential  fitness  of  things. 

“Some  folks  can’t  a-bear  to  put  off  their  colors,”  she  re¬ 
marked;  “but  that  was  never  the  way  i’  my  family.  Why, 
Mrs.  Parrot,  from  the  time  I  was  married,  till  Mr.  Higgins 
died,  nine  years  ago  come  Candlemas,  I  niver  was  out  o’  black 
two  year  together  1  ” 


86 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


“Ah,”  said  Mrs.  Parrot,  who  was  conscious  of  inferiority  in 
this  respect,  “  there  is  n’t  many  families  as  have  had  so  many 
deaths  as  yours,  Mrs.  Higgins.” 

Mrs.  Higgins,  who  was  an  elderly  widow,  “  well  left,”  re¬ 
flected  with  complacency  that  Mrs.  Parrot’s  observation  was  no 
more  than  just,  and  that  Mrs.  Jennings  very  likely  belonged 
to  a  family  which  had  had  no  funerals  to  speak  of. 

Even  dirty  Dame  Fripp,  who  was  a  very  rare  church-goer, 
had  been  to  Mrs.  Hackit  to  beg  a  bit  of  old  crape,  and  with 
this  sign  of  grief  pinned  on  her  little  coal-scuttle  bonnet,  was 
seen  dropping  her  curtsy  opposite  the  reading-desk.  This 
manifestation  of  respect  towards  Mr.  Gilfil’s  memory  on  the 
part  of  Dame  Fripp  had  no  theological  bearing  whatever.  It 
was  due  to  an  event  which  had  occurred  some  years  back,  and 
which,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  had  left  that  grimy  old  lady  as  in¬ 
different  to  the  means  of  grace  as  ever.  Dame  Fripp  kept 
leeches,  and  was  understood  to  have  such  remarkable  influence 
over  those  wilful  animals  in  inducing  them  to  bite  under  the 
most  unpromising  circumstances,  that  though  her  own  leeches 
were  usually  rejected,  from  a  suspicion  that  they  had  lost 
{heir  appetite,  she  herself  was  constantly  called  in  to  apply 
the  more  lively  individuals  furnished  from  Mr.  Pilgrim’s  sur¬ 
gery,  when,  as  was  very  often  the  case,  one  of  that  clever 
man’s  paying  patients  was  attacked  with  inflammation.  Thus 
Dame  Fripp,  in  addition  to  “ property”  supposed  to  yield  her 
no  less  than  half-a-crown  a-week,  was  in  the  receipt  of  profes¬ 
sional  fees,  the  gross  amount  of  which  was  vaguely  estimated 
by  her  neighbors  as  “  pouns  an’  pouns.”  Moreover,  she  drove 
a  brisk  trade  in  lollipop  with  epicurean  urchins,  who  reck¬ 
lessly  purchased  that  luxury  at  the  rate  of  two  hundred  per 
cent.  Nevertheless,  with  all  these  notorious  sources  of  in¬ 
come,  the  shameless  old  woman  constantly  pleaded  poverty, 
and  begged  for  scraps  at  Mrs.  Hackit’s,  who,  though  she 
always  said  Mrs.  Fripp  was  “  as  false  as  two  folks,”  and  no 
better  than  a  miser  and  a  heathen,  had  yet  a  leaning  towards 
her  as  an  old  neighbor. 

“ There’s  that  case-hardened  old  Judy  a-coming  after  the 
tea  leaves  again,”  Mrs.  Hackit  would  say;  “an’  I’m  fool 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


87 


enough,  to  give  ’em  her,  though  Sally  wants  ’em  all  the  while 
to  sweep  the  floors  with  !  ” 

Such  was  Dame  Fripp,  whom  Mr.  Gilfil,  riding  leisurely  m 
top-boots  and  spurs  from  doing  duty  at  Knebley  one  warm 
Sunday  afternoon,  observed  sitting  in  the  dry  ditch  near  her 
cottage,  and  by  her  side  a  large  pig,  who,  with  that  ease  and 
confidence  belonging  to  perfect  friendship,  was  lying  with  his 
head  in  her  lap,  and  making  no  effort  to  play  the  agreeable 
beyond  an  occasional  grunt. 

“  Why,  Mrs.  Fripp,”  said  the  Vicar,  “  I  did  n’t  know  you 
had  such  a  fine  pig.  You  ’ll  have  some  rare  flitches  at 
Christmas  !  ” 

“  Eh,  God  forbid !  My  son  gev  him  me  two  ’ear  ago,  an’ 
he ’s  been  company  to  me  iver  sin’.  I  could  n’t  find  i’  my  heart 
to  part  wi’m,  if  I  niver  knowed  the  taste  o’  bacon-fat  again. 

“  Why,  he  ’ll  eat  his  head  off,  and  yours  too.  How  can  you 
go  on  keeping  a  pig,  and  making  nothing  by  him  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  he  picks  a  bit  hisself  wi’  rootin’,  and  I  dooant  mind 
doing  wi’out  to  gi’  him  summat.  A  bit  o’  coompany ’s  meat 
an’  drink  too,  an’  he  toilers  me  about,  and  grunts  when  I 
spake  to  ’m,  just  like  a  Christian.” 

Mr.  Gilfil  laughed,  and  I  am  obliged  to  admit  that  he  said 
good-by  to  Dame  Fripp  without  asking  her  why  she  had  not 
been  to  church,  or  making  the  slightest  effort  for  her  spiritual 
edification.  But  the  next  day  he  ordered  his  man  David  to 
take  her  a  great  piece  of  bacon,  with  a  message,  saying,  the 
parson  wanted  to  make  sure  that  Mrs.  Fripp  would  know  the 
taste  of  bacon-fat  again.  So,  when  Mr.  Gilfil  died,  Dame 
Fripp  manifested  her  gratitude  and  reverence  in  the  simple 
dingy  fashion  I  have  mentioned. 

You  already  suspect  that  the  Vicar  did  not  shine  in  the 
more  spiritual  functions  of  his  office  ;  and  indeed,  the  utmost 
I  can  say  for  him  in  this  respect  is,  that  he  performed  those 
functions  with  undeviating  attention  to  brevity  and  despatch. 
He  had  a  large  heap  of  short  sermons,  rather  yellow  and  worn 
at  the  edges,  from  which  he  took  two  every  Sunday,  securing 
perfect  impartiality  in  the  selection  by  taking  them  as  they 
came,  without  reference  to  topics ;  and  having  preached  one 


88 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


of  these  sermons  at  Shepperton  in  the  morning,  he  mounted 
his  horse  and  rode  hastily  with  the  other  in  his  pocket  to 
Knebley,  where  he  officiated  in  a  wonderful  little  church,  with 
a  checkered  pavement  which  had  once  rung  to  the  iron  tread 
of  military  monks,  with  coats  of  arms  in  clusters  on  the  lofty 
roof,  marble  warriors  and  their  wives  without  noses  occupying 
a  large  proportion  of  the  area,  and  the  twelve  apostles,  with 
their  heads  very  much  on  one  side,  holding  didactic  ribbons, 
painted  in  fresco  on  the  walls.  Here,  in  an  absence  of  mind 
to  which  he  was  prone,  Mr.  Gilfil  would  sometimes  forget  to 
take  off  his  spurs  before  putting  on  his  surplice,  and  only 
become  aware  of  the  omission  by  feeling  something  myste¬ 
riously  tugging  at  the  skirts  of  that  garment  as  he  stepped  into 
the  reading-desk.  But  the  Knebley  farmers  would  as  soon 
have  thought  of  criticising  the  moon  as  their  pastor.  He 
belonged  to  the  course  of  nature,  like  markets  and  toll-gates 
and  dirty  bank-notes;  and  being  a  vicar,  his  claim  on  their 
veneration  had  never  been  counteracted  by  an  exasperating 
claim  on  their  pockets.  Some  of  them,  who  did  not  indulge 
in  the  superfluity  of  a  covered  cart  without  springs,  had  dined 
half  an  hour  earlier  than  usual  —  that  is  to  say,  at  twelve 
o’clock  —  in  order  to  have  time  for  their  long  walk  through 
miry  lanes,  and  present  themselves  duly  in  their  places  at 
two  o’clock,  when  Mr.  Oldinport  and  Lady  Felicia,  to  whom 
Knebley  Church  was  a  sort  of  family  temple,  made  their  way 
among  the  bows  and  curtsies  of  their  dependants  to  a  carved 
and  canopied  pew  in  the  chancel,  diffusing  as  they  went  a 
delicate  odor  of  Indian  roses  on  the  unsusceptible  nostrils  of 
the  congregation. 

The  farmers’  wives  and  children  sate  on  the  dark  oaken 
benches,  but  the  husbands  usually  chose  the  distinctive  dig¬ 
nity  of  a  stall  under  one  of  the  twelve  apostles,  where,  when 
the  alternation  of  prayers  and  responses  had  given  place  to 
the  agreeable  monotony  of  the  sermon,  Paterfamilias  might  be 
seen  or  heard  sinking  into  a  pleasant  doze,  from  which  he 
infallibly  woke  up  at  the  sound  of  the  concluding  doxology. 
And  then  they  made  their  way  back  again  through  the  miry 
lanes,  perhaps  almost  as  much  the  better  for  this  simple 


MR.  GILFIIAS  LOVE-STORY. 


89 


weekly  tribute  to  what  they  knew  of  good  and  right,  as  many 
a  more  wakeful  and  critical  congregation  of  the  present  day. 

Mr.  Gilfil,  too,  used  to  make  his  way  home  in  the  later 
}eais  of  his  life,  for  he  had  given  up  the  habit  of  dining  at 
Knebley  Abbey  on  a  Sunday,  having,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  had  a 
very  bitter  quarrel  with  Mr.  Oldinport,  the  cousin  and  prede¬ 
cessor  of  the  Mr.  Oldinport  who  flourished  in  the  Rev.  Amos 
Lai  ton  s  time.  That  quarrel  was  a  sad  pity,  for  the  two  had 
had  many  a  good  day’s  hunting  together  when  they  were 
younger,  and  in  those  friendly  times  not  a  few  members  of 
the  hunt  envied  Mr.  Oldinport  the  excellent  terms  he  was  on 
with  his  vicar  5  for,  as  Sir  Jasper  Sitwell  observed,  “next  to  a 
man’s  wife,  there ’s  nobody  can  be  such  an  infernal  plague  to 
you  as  a  parson,  always  under  your  nose  on  your  own  estate.” 

I  fancy  the  original  difference  which  led  to  the  rupture  was 
very  slight ;  but  Mr.  Gilfil  was  of  an  extremely  caustic  turn, 
his  satire  having  a  flavor  of  originality  which  was  quite 
wanting  in  his  sermons.;  and  as  Mr.  Oldinport’s  armor  of 
conscious  virtue  presented  some  considerable  and  conspicuous 
gaps,  the  Vicar’s  keen-edged  retorts  probably  made  a  few 
incisions  too  deep  to  be  forgiven.  Such,  at  least,  was  the 
view  of  the  case  presented  by  Mr.  Hackit,  who  knew  as  much 
of  the  matter  as  any  third  person.  For,  the  very  week  after 
the  quarrel,  when  presiding  at  the  annual  dinner  of  the  Asso¬ 
ciation  for  the  Prosecution  of  Felons,  held  at  the  Oldinport 
Arms,  he  contributed  an  additional  zest  to  the  conviviality 
on  that  occasion  by  informing  the  company  that  “the  parson 
had  given  the  Squire  a  lick  with  the  rough  side  of  his  tongue.” 
The  detection  of  the  person  or  persons  who  had  driven  off  Mr. 
Parrot’s  heifer,  could  hardly  have  been  more  welcome  news 
to  the  Shepperton  tenantry,  with  whom  Mr.  Oldinport  was 
in  the  worst  odor  as  a  landlord,  having  kept  up  his  rents  in 
spite  of  falling  prices,  and  not  being  in  the  least  stung  to 
emulation  by  paragraphs  in  the  provincial  newspapers,  stating 
that  the  Honorable  Augustus  Purwell,  or  Viscount  Blethers, 
had  made  a  return  of  ten  per  cent  on  their  last  rent-day.  The 
fact  was,  Mr.  Oldinport  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of 
standing  for  Parliament,  whereas  he  had  the  strongest  intern 


90 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


tion  of  adding  to  his  unentailed  estate.  Hence,  to  the  Shep 
perton  farmers  it  was  as  good  as  lemon  with  their  grog  to 
know  that  the  Vicar  had  thrown  out  sarcasms  against  the 
Squire’s  charities,  as  little  better  than  those  of  the  man  who 
stole  a  goose,  and  gave  away  the  giblets  in  alms.  For  Shep- 
perton,  you  observe,  was  in  a  state  of  Attic  culture  compared 
with  Knebley ;  it  had  turnpike  roads  and  a  public  opinion, 
whereas,  in  the  Boeotian  Knebley,  men’s  minds  and  wagons 
alike  moved  in  the  deepest  of  ruts,  and  the  landlord  was  only 
grumbled  at  as  a  necessary  and  unalterable  evil,  like  the 
weather,  the  weevils,  and  the  turnip-fly. 

Thus  in  Shepperton  this  breach  with  Mr.  Oldinport  tended 
only  to  heighten  that  good  understanding  which  the  Vicar 
had  always  enjoyed  with  the  rest  of  his  parishioners,  from  the 
generation  whose  children  he  had  christened  a  quarter  of  a 
century  before,  down  to  that  hopeful  generation  represented 
by  little  Tommy  Bond,  who  had  recently  quitted  frocks  and 
trousers  for  the  severe  simplicity  of  a  tight  suit  of  corduroys, 
relieved  by  numerous  brass .  buttons.  Tommy  was  a  saucy 
boy,  impervious  to  all  impressions  of  reverence,  and  exces¬ 
sively  addicted  to  humming-tops  and  marbles,  with  which 
recreative  resources  he  was  in  the  habit  of  immoderately  dis¬ 
tending  the  pockets  of  his  corduroys.  One  day,  spinning  his 
top  on  the  garden-walk,  and  seeing  the  Vicar  advance  directly 
towards  it,  at  that  exciting  moment  when  it  was  beginning  to 
“  sleep  ”  magnificently,  he  shouted  out  with  all  the  force  of 
his  lungs  —  “  Stop !  don’t  knock  my  top  down,  now  !  ”  From 
that  day  “  little  Corduroys  ”  had  been  an  especial  favorite  with 
Mr.  Gilfil,  who  delighted  to  provoke  his  ready  scorn  and 
wonder  by  putting  questions  which  gave  Tommy  the  meanest 
opinion  of  his  intellect. 

“Well,  little  Corduroys,  have  they  milked  the  geese 
to-day  ?  ” 

“  Milked  the  geese !  why,  they  don’t  milk  the  geese,  you 
silly !  ” 

“  No  !  dear  heart !  why,  how  do  the  goslings  live,  then  ?  ” 

The  nutriment  of  goslings  rather  transcending  Tommy’s 
observations  in  natural  history,  he  feigned  to  understand  this 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY.  91 

question  in  an  exclamatory  rather  than  an  interrogatory  sense, 
and  became  absorbed  in  winding  up  his  top. 

“  Ah,  I  see  you  don’t  know  how  the  goslings  live  !  But  did 
you  notice  how  it  rained  sugar-plums  yesterday  ?  ”  (Here 
Tommy  became  attentive.)  “  Why,  they  fell  into  my  pocket 
as  I  rode  ?-long.  You  look  in  my  pocket  and  see  if  they 
did  n’t.” 

Tommy,  without  waiting  to  discuss  the  alleged  antecedent, 
lost  no  time  in  ascertaining  the  presence  of  the  agreeable 
consequent,  for  he  had  a  well-founded  belief  in  the  advantages 
of  diving  into  the  Vicar’s  pocket.  Mr.  Gilfil  called  it  his 
wonderful  pocket,  because,  as  he  delighted  to  tell  the  “  young 
shavers  ”  and  u  two-shoes  ”  —  so  he  called  all  little  boys  and 
girls — whenever  he  put  pennies  into  it,  they  turned  into 
sugar-plums  or  gingerbread,  or  some  other  nice  thing.  Indeed, 
little  Bessie  Parrot,  a  flaxen-neaded  “  two-shoes,”  very  white 
and  fat  as  to  her  neck,  always  had  the  admirable  directness 
and  sincerity  to  salute  him  with  the  question  —  “  What  zoo 
dot  in  zoo  pottet  ?  ” 

You  can  imagine,  then,  that  the  christening  dinners  were 
none  the  less  merry  for  the  presence  of  the  parson.  The 
farmers  relished  his  society  particularly,  for  he  could  not  only 
smoke  his  pipe,  and  season  the  details  of  parish  affairs  with 
abundance  of  caustic  jokes  and  proverbs,  but,  as  Mr.  Bond 
often  said,  no  man  knew  more  than  the  Vicar  about  the  breed 
of  cows  and  horses.  He  had  grazing-land  of  his  own  about 
five  miles  off,  which  a  bailiff,  ostensibly  a  tenant,  farmed  under 
his  direction;  and  to  ride  backwards  and  forwards,  and  look 
after  the  buying  and  selling  of  stock,  was  the  old  gentleman’s 
chief  relaxation,  now  his  hunting-days  were  over.  To  hear 
him  discussing  the  respective  merits  of  the  Devonshire  breed 
and  the  short-horns,  or  the  last  foolish  decision  of  the  magis¬ 
trates  about  a  pauper,  a  superficial  observer  might  have  seen 
little  difference,  beyond  his  superior  shrewdness,  between  the 
Vicar  and  his  bucolic  parishioners ;  for  it  was  his  habit  to 
approximate  his  accent  and  mode  of  speech  to  theirs,  doubtless 
because  he  thought  it  a  mere  frustration  of  the  purposes  of 
language  to  talk  of  “  shear-hogs  ”  and  “  ewes  ”  to  men  who 


02 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


habitually  said  “  sharrags  ”  and  “yowes.”  Nevertheless  the 
farmers  themselves  were  perfectly  aware  of  the  distinction 
between  them  and  the  parson,  and  had  not  at  all  the  less 
belief  in  him  as  a  gentleman  and  a  clergyman  for  his  easy 
speech  and  familiar  manners.  Mrs.  Parrot  smoothed  her 
apron  and  set  her  cap  right  with  the  utmost  solicitude  when 
she  saw  the  Vicar  coming,  made  him  her  deepest  curtsy,  and 
«very  Christmas  had  a  fat  turkey  ready  to  send  him  with  her 
“  duty.”  And  in  the  most  gossiping  colloquies  with  Mr.  Gilfil, 
you  might  have  observed  that  both  men  and  women  “  minded 
their  words,”  and  never  became  indifferent  to  his  approbation. 

The  same  respect  attended  him  in  his  strictly  clerical  func¬ 
tions.  The  benefits  of  baptism  were  supposed  to  be  somehow 
bound  up  with  Mr.  GilfiTs  personality,  so  metaphysical  a  dis¬ 
tinction  as  that  between  a  man  and  his  office  being,  as  yet, 
quite  foreign  to  the  mind  of  a  good  Shepperton  Churchman, 
savoring,  he  would  have  thought,  of  Dissent  on  the  very  face 
of  it.  Miss  Selina  Parrot  put  off  her  marriage  a  whole  month 
when  Mr.  Gilfil  had  an  attack  of  rheumatism,  rather  than  be 
married  in  a  makeshift  manner  by  the  Milby  curate. 

“We’ve  had  a  very  good  sermon  this  morning,”  was  the 
frequent  remark,  after  hearing  one  of  the  old  yellow  series, 
heard  with  all  the  more  satisfaction  because  it  had  been  heard 
for  the  twentieth  time ;  for  to  minds  on  the  Shepperton  level 
it  is  repetition,  not  novelty,  that  produces  the  strongest  effect ; 
and  phrases,  like  tunes,  are  a  long  time  making  themselves  at 
home  in  the  brain. 

Mr.  GilfiFs  sermons,  as  you  may  imagine,  were  not  of  a 
highly  doctrinal,  still  less  of  a  polemical,  cast.  They  perhaps 
did  not  search  the  conscience  very  powerfully ;  for  you  remem¬ 
ber  that  to  Mrs.  Patten,  who  had  listened  to  them  thirty  years, 
the  announcement  that  she  was  a  sinner  appeared  an  uncivil 
heresy ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  they  made  no  unreasonable 
demand  on  the  Shepperton  intellect  —  amounting,  indeed,  to 
little  more  than  an  expansion  of  the  concise  thesis,  that  those 
who  do  wrong  will  find  it  the  worse  for  them,  and  those  who 
do  well  will  find  it  the  better  for  them  ;  the  nature  of  wrong¬ 
doing  being  exposed  in  special  sermons  against  lying,  back- 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOYE-STORY.  93 

biting,  anger,  slothfulness,  and  the  like  ;  and  well-doing  being 
interpreted  as  honesty,  truthfulness,  charity,  industry,  and 
other  common  virtues,  lying  quite  on  the  surface  of  life,  and 
having  very  little  to  do  with  deep  spiritual  doctrine.  Mrs. 
Patten  understood  that  if  she  turned  out  ill-crushed  cheeses, 
a  just  retribution  awaited  her ;  though,  I  fear,  she  made  no 
particular  application  of  the  sermon  on  backbiting.  Mrs. 
Hackit  expressed  herself  greatly  edified  by  the  sermon  on 
honesty,  the  allusion  to  the  unjust  weight  and  deceitful  bal¬ 
ance  having  a  peculiar  lucidity  for  her,  owing  to  a  recent 
dispute  with  her  grocer ;  but  I  am  not  aware  that  she  ever 
appeared  to  be  much  struck  by  the  sermon  on  anger. 

As  to  any  suspicion  that  Mr.  Gilfil  did  not  dispense  the 
pure  Gospel,  or  any  strictures  on  his  doctrine  and  mode  of 
delivery,  such  thoughts  never  visited  the  minds  of  the  Shep- 
perton  parishioners  —  of  those  very  parishioners  who,  ten  or 
fifteen  years  later,  showed  themselves  extremely  critical  of 
Mr.  Barton’s  discourses  and  demeanor.  But  in  the  interim 
they  had  tasted  that  dangerous  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge 

innovation,  which  is  well  known  to  open  the  eyes,  even  in 
an  uncomfortable  manner.  At  present,  to  find  fault  with  the 
sermon  was  regarded  as  almost  equivalent  to  finding  fault 
with  religion  itself.  One  Sunday,  Mr.  Hackit’s  nephew, 
Master  Tom  ^Stokes,  a  flippant  town  youth,  greatly  scanda¬ 
lized  his  excellent  relatives  by  declaring  that  he  could  write 
as  good  a  sermon  as  Mr.  Gilfil’s ;  whereupon  Mr.  Hackit 
sought  to  reduce  the  presumptuous  youth  to  utter  confusion, 
by  offering  him  a  sovereign  if  he  would  fulfil  his  vaunt.  The 
sermon  was  written,  however ;  and  though  it  was  not  ad¬ 
mitted  to  be  anywhere  within  reach  of  Mr.  Gilfil’s,  it  was  yet 
so  astonishingly  like  a  sermon,  having  a  text,  three  divisions, 
and  a  concluding  exhortation  beginning  <e  And  now,  my  breth¬ 
ren,”  that  the  sovereign,  though  denied  formally,  was  be¬ 
stowed  informally,  and  the  sermon  was  pronounced,  when 

Master  Stokes’s  back  was  turned,  to  be  u  an  uncommon  diver 
thing.” 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Pickard,  indeed,  of  the  Independent  Meeting, 
had  stated,  in.  a  sermon  preached  at  Rotherby,  for  the  reduc- 


94 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


tion  of  a  debt  on  New  Zion,  built,  with  an  exuberance  of  faith 
and  a  deficiency  of  funds,  by  seceders  from  the  original  Zion, 
that  he  lived  in  a  parish  where  the  Vicar  was  very  “  dark ;  ” 
and  in  the  prayers  he  addressed  to  his  own  congregation,  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  comprehensively  alluding  to  the  parish¬ 
ioners  outside  the  chapel  walls,  as  those  who,  Gallio-like, 
“  cared  for  none  of  these  things.”  But  I  need  hardly  say  that 
no  church-goer  ever  came  within  earshot  of  Mr.  Pickard. 

It  was  not  to  the  Shepperton  farmers  only  that  Mr.  Gilfil’s 
society  was  acceptable  ;  he  was  a  welcome  guest  at  some  of 
the  best  houses  in  that  part  of  the  country.  Old  Sir  Jasper 
Sitwell  would  have  been  glad  to  see  him  every  week ;  and  if 
you  had  seen  him  conducting  Lady  Sitwell  in  to  dinner,  or 
had  heard  him  talking  to  her  with  quaint  yet  graceful  gal¬ 
lantry,  you  would  have  inferred  that  the  earlier  period  of  his 
life  had  been  passed  in  more  stately  society  than  could  be 
found  in  Shepperton,  and  that  his  slipshod  chat  and  homely 
manners  were  but  like  weather-stains  on  a  fine  old  block  of 
marble,  allowing  you  still  to  see  here  and  there  the  fineness 
of  the  grain,  and  the  delicacy  of  the  original  tint.  But  in  his 
later  years  these  visits  became  a  little  too  troublesome  to  the 
old  gentleman,  and  he  was  rarely  to  be  found  anywhere  of  an 
evening  beyond  the  bounds  of  his  own  parish  —  most  fre- 
quently,  indeed,  by  the  side  of  his  own  sitting-room  fire,  smok¬ 
ing  his  pipe,  and  maintaining  the  pleasing  antithesis  of  dryness 
and  moisture  by  an  occasional  sip  of  gin-and-water. 

Here  I  am  aware  that  I  have  run  the  risk  of  alienating  all 
my  refined  lady-readers,  and  utterly  annihilating  any  curiosity 
they  may  have  felt  to  know  the  details  of  Mr.  Gilfil’s  love- 
story.  “  Gin-and-water !  foh !  you  may  as  well  ask  us  to  inter¬ 
est  ourselves  in  the  romance  of  a  tallow-chandler,  who  mingles 
the  image  of  his  beloved  with  short  dips  and  moulds.” 

But  in  the  first  place,  dear  ladies,  allow  me  to  plead  that 
gin-and-water,  like  obesity,  or  baldness,  or  the  gout,  does  not 
exclude  a  vast  amount  of  antecedent  romance,  any  more  than 
the  neatly  executed  “  fronts  ”  which  you  may  some  day  wear, 
will  exclude  your  present  possession  of  less  expensive  braids. 
Alas,  alasl  we  poor  mortals  are  often  little  better  than  wood- 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY.  95 

ashes  —  there  is  small  sign  of  the  sap,  and  the  leafy  freshness, 
and  the  bursting  buds  that  were  once  there ;  but  wherever  we 
see  wood-ashes,  we  know  that  all  that  early  fulness  of  life 
must  have  been.  I,  at  least,  hardly  ever  look  at  a  bent  old 
man,  or  a  wizened  old  woman,  but  I  see  also,  with  my  mind’s 
eye,  that  Past  of  which  they  are  the  shrunken  remnant,  and 
the  unfinished  romance  of  rosy  cheeks  and  bright  eyes  seems 
sometimes  of  feeble  interest  and  significance,  compared  with 
that  drama  of  hope  and  love  which  has  long  ago  reached  its 
catastrophe,  and  left  the  poor  soul,  like  a  dim  and  dusty  stage, 
with  all  its  sweet  garden-scenes  and  fair  perspectives  over¬ 
turned  and  thrust  out  of  sight. 

In  the  second  place,  let  me  assure  you  that  Mr.  GilfiPs  po¬ 
tations  of  gin-and-water  were  quite  moderate.  His  nose  was 
not  rubicund ;  on  the  contrary,  his  white  hair  hung  around  a 
pale  and  venerable  face.  He  drank  it  chiefly,  I  believe,  be¬ 
cause  it  was  cheap ;  and  here  I  find  myself  alighting  on  an¬ 
other  of  the  Vicar’s  weaknesses,  which,  if  I  had  cared  to  paint 
a  flattering  portrait  rather  than  a  faithful  one,  I  might  have 
chosen  to  suppress.  It  is  undeniable  that,  as  the  years  ad¬ 
vanced,  Mr.  Gilfil  became,  as  Mr.  Hackit  observed,  more  and 
more  “  close-fisted,”  though  the  growing  propensity  showed 
itself  rather  in  the  parsimony  of  his  personal  habits,  than  in 
withholding  help  from  the  needy.  He  was  saving  —  so  he 
represented  the  matter  to  himself  —  for  a  nephew,  the  only 
son  of  a  sister  who  had  been  the  dearest  object,  all  but  one, 
in  his  life.  “  The  lad,”  he  thought,  “  will  have  a  nice  little 
fortune  to  begin  life  with,  and  will  bring  his  pretty  young 
wife  some  day  to  see  the  spot  where  his  old  uncle  lies.  It 
will  perhaps  be  all  the  better  for  his  hearth  that  mine  was 
lonely.” 

Mr.  Gilfil  was  a  bachelor,  then  ? 

That  is  the  conclusion  to  which  you  would  probably  have 
come  if  you  had  entered  his  sitting-room,  where  the  bare 
tables,  the  large  old-fashioned  horse-hair  chairs,  and  the  thread¬ 
bare  Turkey  carpet  perpetually  fumigated  with  tobacco,  seemed 
to  tell  a  story  of  wifeless  existence  that  was  contradicted  by 
no  portrait,  no  piece  of  embroidery,  no  faded  bit  of  pretty 


96 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


triviality,  hinting  of  taper-fingers  and  small  feminine  ambi¬ 
tions.  And  it  was  here  that  Mr.  Gilfil  passed  his  evenings, 
seldom  with  other  society  than  that  of  Ponto,  his  old  brown 
setter,  who,  stretched  out  at  full  length  on  the  rug  with  his 
nose  between  his  fore-paws,  would  wrinkle  his  brows  and  lift 
up  his  eyelids  every  now  and  then,  to  exchange  a  glance  of 
mutual  understanding  with  his  master.  But  there  was  a 
chamber  in  Shepperton  Vicarage  which  told  a  different  story 
from  that  bare  and  cheerless  dining-room  —  a  chamber  never 
entered  by  any  one  besides  Mr.  Gilfil  and  old  Martha  the 
housekeeper,  who,  with  David  her  husband  as  groom  and 
gardener,  formed  the  Vicar’s  entire  establishment.  The  blinds 
of  this  chamber  were  always  down,  except  once  a-quarter,  when 
Martha  entered  that  she  might  air  and  clean  it.  She  always 
asked  Mr.  Gilfil  for  the  key,  which  he  kept  locked  up  in  his 
bureau,  and  returned  it  to  him  when  she  had  finished  her  task. 

It  was  a  touching  sight  that  the  daylight  streamed  in  upon, 
as  Martha  drew  aside  the  blinds  and  thick  curtains,  and  opened 
the  Gothic  casement  of  the  oriel  window !  On  the  little  dress¬ 
ing-table  there  was  a  dainty  looking-glass  in  a  carved  and  gilt 
frame ;  bits  of  wax-candle  were  still  in  the  branched  sockets 
at  the  sides,  and  on  one  of  these  branches  hung  a  little  black 
lace  kerchief ;  a  faded  satin  pincushion,  with  the  pins  rusted 
in  it,  a  scent-bottle,  and  a  large  green  fan,  lay  on  the  table ; 
and  on  a  dressing-box  by  the  side  of  the  glass  was  a  work- 
basket,  and  an  unfinished  baby-cap,  yellow  with  age,  lying  in 
it.  Two  gowns,  of  a  fashion  long  forgotten,  were  hanging  on 
nails  against  the  door,  and  a  pair  of  tiny  red  slippers,  with  a 
bit  of  tarnished  silver  embroidery  on  them,  were  standing  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed.  Two  or  three  water-color  drawings,  views 
of  Naples,  hung  upon  the  walls ;  and  over  the  mantel-piece, 
above  some  bits  of  rare  old  china,  two  miniatures  in  oval 
frames.  One  of  these  miniatures  represented  a  young  man 
about  seven-and-twenty,  with  a  sanguine  complexion,  full  lips, 
and  clear  candid  gray  eyes.  The  other  was  the  likeness  of  a 
girl  probably  not  more  than  eighteen,  with  small  features,  thin 
cheeks,  a  pale  southern-looking  complexion,  and  large  dark 
eyes.  The  gentleman  wore  powder ;  the  lady  had  her  dark 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


97 


hair  gathered  away  from  her  face,  and  a  little  cap,  with  a 
cherry-colored  bow,  set  on  the  top  of  her  head  —  a  coquettish 
head-dress,  but  the  eyes  spoke  of  sadness  rather  than  of 
coquetry. 

Such  were  the  things  that  Martha  had  dusted  and  let  the 
air  upon,  four  times  a-year,  ever  since  she  was  a  blooming  lass 
of  twenty;  and  she  was  now,  in  this  last  decade  of  Mr.  Gilfil’s 
life,  unquestionably  on  the  wrong  side  of  fifty.  Such  was  the 
locked-up  chamber  in  Mr.  Gilfil’s  house  :  a  sort  of  visible  sym¬ 
bol  of  the  secret  chamber  in  his  heart,  where  he  had  long 
turned  the  key  on  early  hopes  and  early  sorrows,  shutting  up 
forever  all  the  passion  and  the  poetry  of  his  life. 

There  were  not  many  people  in  the  parish,  besides  Martha, 
who  had  any  very  distinct  remembrance  of  Mr.  Gilfil’s  wife,  or 
indeed  who  knew  anything  of  her,  beyond  the  fact  that  there 
was  a  marble  tablet,  with  a  Latin  inscription  in  memory  of  her, 
over  the  vicarage  pew.  The  parishioners  who  were  old  enough 
to  remember  her  arrival  were  not  generally  gifted  with  de¬ 
scriptive  powers,  and  the  utmost  you  could  gather  from  them 
was,  that  Mrs.  Gilfil  looked  like  a  “furriner,  wi’  such  eyes,  you 
can’t  think,  an’  a  voice  as  went  through  you  when  she  sung  at 
church.”  The  one  exception  was  Mrs.  Patten,  whose  strong 
memory  and  taste  for  personal  narrative  made  her  a  great 
source  of  oral  tradition  in  Shepperton.  Mr.  Hackit,  who  had 
not  come  into  the  parish  until  ten  years  after  Mrs.  Gilfil’s 
death,  would  often  put  old  questions  to  Mrs.  Patten  for  the 
sake  of  getting  the  old  answers,  which  pleased  him  in  the  same 
way  as  passages  from  a  favorite  book,  or  the  scenes  of  a  famil 
iar  play,  please  more  accomplished  people. 

“  Ah,  you  remember  well  the  Sunday  as  Mrs.  Gilfil  first  come 
to  church,  eh,  Mrs.  Patten  ?  ” 

“  To  be  sure  I  do.  It  was  a  fine  bright  Sunday  as  ever 
was  seen,  just  at  the  beginnin’  o’  hay  harvest.  Mr.  Tarbett 
preached  that  day,  and  Mr.  Gilfil  sat  i’  the  pew  with  his  wife. 
I  think  I  see  him  now,  a-leading  her  up  the  aisle,  an’  her  head 
not  reachin’  much  above  his  elber:  a  little  pale  woman,  with 
eyes  as  black  as  sloes,  an’  yet  lookin’  blank-like,  as  if  she  see’d 
nothing  with  ’em.” 


VOL.  IV 


I 


98  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

“I  warrant  she  had  her  weddin’  clothes  on?”  said  Mr 
Hackit. 

“  Nothin’  partickler  smart  —  on’y  a  white  hat  tied  down 
under  her  chin,  an’  a  white  Indy  muslin  gown.  But  you  don’t 
know  what  Mr.  Gilfil  was  in  those  times.  He  was  fine  an’  al¬ 
tered  before  you  come  into  the  parish.  He ’d  a  fresh  color  then, 
an’  a  bright  look  wi’  his  eyes,  as  did  your  heart  good  to  see. 
He  looked  rare  and  happy  that  Sunday ;  but  somehow,  I’da 
feelin’  as  it  would  n’t  last  long.  I ’ve  no  opinion  o’  furriners, 
Mr.  Hackit,  for  I ’ve  travelled  i’  their  country  with  my  lady  in 
my  time,  an’  seen  enough  o’  their  victuals  an’  their  nasty  ways.” 

“  Mrs.  Gilfil  come  from  It’ly,  did. n’t  she  ?  ” 

“  I  reckon  she  did,  but  I  niver  could  rightly  hear  about  that. 
Mr.  Gilfil  was  niver  to  be  spoke  to  about  her,  and  nobody  else 
hereabout  knowed  anythin’.  Howiver,  she  must  ha’  come  over 
pretty  young,  for  she  spoke  English  as  well  as  you  an’  me. 
It’s  them  Italians  as  has  such  fine  voices,  an’  Mrs.  Gilfil  sung, 
you  never  heared  the  like.  He  brought  her  here  to  have  tea  with 
me  one  afternoon,  and  says  he,  in  his  jovial  way,  ‘  Now,  Mrs. 
Patten,  I  want  Mrs.  Gilfil  to  see  the  neatest  house,  and  drink 
the  best  cup  o’  tea,  in  all  Shepperton  ;  you  must  show  her  your 
dairy  and  your  cheese-room,  and  then  she  shall  sing  you  a  song.’ 
An’  so  she  did;  an’  her  voice  seemed  sometimes  to  fill  the 
room ;  an’  then  it  went  low  an’  soft  as  if  it  was  whisperin’ 
close  to  your  heart  like.” 

“  You  never  heared  her  again,  I  reckon  ?” 

“No:  she  was  sickly  then,  and  she  died  in  a  few  months 
after.  She  was  n’t  in  the  parish  much  more  nor  half  a  year 
altogether.  She  did  n’t  seem  lively  that  afternoon,  an’  I  could 
see  she  did  n’t  care  about  the  dairy,  nor  the  cheeses,  on’y  she 
pretended,  to  please  him.  As  for  him,  I  niver  see’d  a  man  so 
wrapt  up  in  a  woman.  He  looked  at  her  as  if  he  was  worship- 
pin’  her,  an’  as  if  he  wanted  to  lift  her  off  the  ground  ivery 
minute,  to  save  her  the  trouble  o’  walkin’.  Poor  man,  poor 
man  !  It  had  like  to  ha’  killed  him  when  she  died,  though  he 
niver  gev  way,  but  went  on  ridin’  about  and  preachin’.  But 
he  was  wore  to  a.  shadow,  an’  his  eyes  used  to  look  as  dead  — 
you  would  n’t  ha’  knowed  ’em.” 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


99 


u  She  brought  him  no  fortin  ?  ” 

“Not  she.  All  Mr.  Gilfil’s  property  come  by  his  mothers 
side.  There  was  blood  an’  money  too,  there.  It ’s  a  thousand 
pities  as  he  married  i’  that  way  —  a  fine  man  like  him,  as  might 
ha’  had  the  pick  o’  the  county,  an’  had  his  grandchildren  about 
him  now.  An’  him  so  fond  o’  children,  too.” 

In  this  manner  Mrs.  Patten  usually  wound  up  her  reminis¬ 
cences  of  the  Vicar’s  wife,  of  whom,  you  perceive,  she  knew 
but  little.  It  was  clear  that  the  communicative  old  lady  had 
nothing  to  tell  of  Mrs.  Gilfil’s  history  previous  to  her  arrival 
in  Shepperton,  and  that  she  was  unacquainted  with  Mr.  Gilfil’s 
love-story. 

But  I,  dear  reader,  am  quite  as  communicative  as  Mrs.  Pat¬ 
ten,  and  much  better  informed ;  so  that,  if  you  care  to  know 
more  about  the  Vicar’s  courtship  and  marriage,  you  need  only 
carry  your  imagination  back  to  the  latter  end  of  the  last  cen¬ 
tury,  and  your  attention  forward  into  the  next  chapter. 


♦ 


CHAPTEE  II. 

It  is  the  evening  of  the  21st  of  June,  1788.  The  day  has 
been  bright  and  sultry,  and  the  sun  will  still  be  more  than  an 
hour  above  the  horizon,  but  his  rays,  broken  by  the  leafy  fret¬ 
work  of  the  elms  that  border  the  park,  no  longer  prevent  two 
ladies  from  carrying  out  their  cushions  and  embroidery,  and 
seating  themselves  to  work  on  the  lawn  in  front  of  Cheverel 
Manor.  The  soft  turf  gives  way  even  under  the  fairy  tread  of 
the  younger  lady,  whose  small  stature  and  slim  figure  rest 
on  the  tiniest  of  full-grown  feet.  She  trips  along  before  the 
elder,  carrying  the  cushions,  which  she  places  in  the  favorite 
spot,  just  on  the  slope  by  a  clump  of  laurels,  where  they  can 
see  the  sunbeams  sparkling  among  the  water-lilies,  and  can 
be  themselves  seen  from  the  dinmg-room  windows.  She  has 


100 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


deposited  the  cushions,  and  now  turns  round,  so  that  you  may 
have  a  full  view  of  her  as  she  stands  waiting  the  slower  ad¬ 
vance  of  the  elder  lady.  You  are  at  once  arrested  by  her  large 
dark  eyes,  which,  in  their  inexpressive  unconscious  beauty, 
resemble  the  eyes  of  a  fawn,  and  it  is  only  by  an  effort  of  at¬ 
tention  that  you  notice  the  absence  of  bloom  on  her  young 
cheek,  and  the  southern  yellowish  tint  of  her  small  neck  and 
face,  rising  above  the  little  black  lace  kerchief  which  prevents 
the  too  immediate  comparison  of  her  skin  with  her  white  mus¬ 
lin  gown.  Her  large  eyes  seem  all  the  more  striking  because 
the  dark  hair  is  gathered  away  from  her  face,  under  a  little 
cap  set  at  the  top  of  her  head,  with  a  cherry-colored  bow  on 
one  side. 

The  elder  lady,  who  is  advancing  towards  the  cushions,  is 
cast  in  a  very  different  mould  of  womanhood.  She  is  tall,  and 
looks  the  taller  because  her  powdered  hair  is  turned  backward 
over  a  toupee,  and  surmounted  by  lace  and  ribbons.  She  is 
nearly  fifty,  but  her  complexion  is  still  fresh  and  beautiful, 
with  the  beauty  of  an  auburn  blond ;  her  proud  pouting  lips, 
and  her  head  thrown  a  little  backward  as  she  walks,  give  an 
expression  of  hauteur  which  is  not  contradicted  by  the  cold 
gray  eye.  The  tucked-in  kerchief,  rising  full  over  the  low 
tight  bodice  of  her  blue  dress,  sets  off  the  majestic  form  of 
her  bust,  and  she  treads  the  lawn  as  if  she  were  one  of  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds’s  stately  ladies,  who  had  suddenly  stepped 
from  her  frame  to  enjoy  the  evening  cool. 

“  Put  the  cushions  lower,  Caterina,  that  we  may  not  have  sc 
nuch  sun  upon  us,”  she  called  out,  in  a  tone  of  authority,  when 
(till  at  some  distance. 

Caterina  obeyed,  and  they  sat  down,  making  two  bright 
patches  of  red  and  white  and  blue  on  the  green  background  of 
die  laurels  and  the  lawn,  which  would  look  none  the  less 
pretty  in  a  picture  because  one  of  the  women’s  hearts  was 
rather  cold  and  the  other  rather  sad. 

And  a  charming  picture  Cheverel  Manor  would  have  made 
that  evening,  if  some  English  Watteau  had  been  there  to 
paint  it :  the  castellated  house  of  gray -tinted  stone,  with 
the  flickering  sunbeams  sending  dashes  of  golden  light  across 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


101 


the  many-shaped  panes  in  the  mullioned  windows,  and  a  great 
beech  leaning  athwart  one  of  the  flanking  towers,  and  break- 
ing,  with  its  dark  flattened  boughs,  the  too  formal  symmetry 
of  the  front ;  the  broad  gravel-walk  winding  on  the  right,  by 
a  row  of  tall  pines,  alongside  the  pool  —  on  the  left  branching 
out  among  swelling  grassy  mounds,  surmounted  by  clumps  of 
trees,  where  the  red  trunk  of  the  Scotch  fir  glows  in  the 
descending  sunlight  against  the  bright  green  of  limes  and 
acacias ;  the  great  pool,  where  a  pair  of  swans  are  swimming 
lazily  with  one  leg  tucked  under  a  wing,  and  where  the  open 
water-lilies  lie  calmly  accepting  the  kisses  of  the  fluttering 
light-sparkles  ;  the  lawn,  with  its  smooth  emerald  greenness, 
sloping  down  to  the  rougher  and  browner  herbage  of  the  park, 
from  which  it  is  invisibly  fenced  by  a  little  stream  that  winds 
away  from  the  pool,  and  disappears  under  a  wooden  bridge  in 
the  distant  pleasure-ground ;  and  on  this  lawn  our  two  ladies, 
whose  part  in  the  landscape  the  painter,  standing  at  a  favor¬ 
able  point  of  view  in  the  park,  would  represent  with  a  few 
little  dabs  of  red  and  white  and  blue. 

Seen  from  the  great  Gothic  windows  of  the  dining-room, 
they  had  much  more  definiteness  of  outline,  and  were  dis¬ 
tinctly  visible  to  the  three  gentlemen  sipping  their  claret 
there,  as  two  fair  women  in  whom  al]  three  had  a  personal 
interest.  These  gentlemen  were  a  group  worth  considering 
attentively ;  but  any  one  entering  that  dining-room  for  the 
first  time,  would  perhaps  have  had  his  attention  even  more 
strongly  arrested  by  the  room  itself,  which  was  so  bare  of 
furniture  that  it  impressed  one  with  its  architectural  beauty 
like  a  cathedral.  A  piece  of  matting  stretched  from  door  to 
door,  a  bit  of  worn  carpet  under  the  dining-table,  and  a  side¬ 
board  in  a  deep  recess,  did  not  detain  the  eye  for  a  moment 
from  the  lofty  groined  ceiling,  with  its  richly  carved  pendants, 
all  of  creamy  white,  relieved  here  and  there  by  touches  of  gold. 
On  one  side,  this  lofty  ceiling  was  supported  by  pillars  and 
arches,  beyond  which  a  lower  ceiling,  a  miniature  copy  of  the 
higher  one,  covered  the  square  projection  which,  with  its 
three  large  pointed  windows,  formed  the  central  feature  of 
the  building.  The  room  looked  less  like  a  place  to  dine  in 


102 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


than  a  piece  of  space  enclosed  simply  for  the  sake  of  beautiful 
outline ;  and  the  small  dining-table,  with  the  party  round  it, 
seemed  an  odd  and  insignificant  accident,  rather  than  anything 
connected  with  the  original  purpose  of  the  apartment. 

But,  examined  closely,  that  group  was  far  from  insignifi¬ 
cant;  for  the  eldest,  who  was  reading  in  the  newspaper  the 
last  portentous  proceedings  of  the  French  parliaments,  and 
turning  with  occasional  comments  to  his  young  companions, 
was  as  fine  a  specimen  of  the  old  English  gentleman  as  could 
well  have  been  found  in  those  venerable  days  of  cocked-hats 
and  pigtails.  His  dark  eyes  sparkled  under  projecting  brows, 
made  more  prominent  by  bushy  grizzled  eyebrows ;  but  any 
apprehension  of  severity  excited  by  these  penetrating  eyes, 
and  by  a  somewhat  aquiline  nose,  was  allayed  by  the  good' 
natured  lines  about  the  mouth,  which  retained  all  its  teeth 
and  its  vigor  of  expression  in  spite  of  sixty  winters.  The 
forehead  sloped  a  little  from  the  projecting  brows,  and  its 
peaked  outline  was  made  conspicuous  by  the  arrangement  of 
the  profusely  powdered  hair,  drawn  backward  and  gathered 
into  a  pigtail.  He  sat  in  a  small  hard  chair,  which  did  not 
admit  the  slightest  approach  to  a  lounge,  and  which  showed 
to  advantage  the  flatness  of  his  back  and  the  breadth  of  his 
chest.  In  fact  Sir  Christopher  Cheverel  was  a  splendid  old 
gentleman,  as  any  one  may  see  who  enters  the  saloon  at 
Cheverel  Manor,  where  his  full-length  portrait,  taken  when  he 
was  fifty,  hangs  side  by  side  with  that  of  his  wife,  the  stately 
lady  seated  on  the  lawn. 

Looking  at  Sir  Christopher,  you  would  at  once  have  been 
inclined  to  hope  that  he  had  a  full-grown  son  and  heir ;  but 
perhaps  you  would  have  wished  that  it  might  not  prove  to  be 
the  young  man  on  his  right  hand,  in  whom  a  certain  resem¬ 
blance  to  the  Baronet,  in  the  contour  of  the  nose  and  brow, 
seemed  to  indicate  a  family  relationship.  If  this  young  man 
had  been  less  elegant  in  his  person,  he  would  have  been 
remarked  for  the  elegance  of  his  dress.  But  the  perfections 
of  his  slim  well-proportioned  figT>~o  were  so  striking  that  no 
one  but  a  tailor  could  notice  the  perfections  of  his  velvet  coat ; 
and  his  small  white  hands,  with  their  blue  veins  and  taper 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


m 


fingers,  quite  eclipsed  the  beauty  of  his  lace  ruffles.  The  face, 
however  —  it  was  difficult  to  say  why  —  was  certainly  not 
pleasing.  Nothing  could  be  more  delicate  than  the  blond 
complexion  —  its  bloom  set  off  by  the  powdered  hair  —  than 
the  veined  overhanging  eyelids,  which  gave  an  indolent  ex¬ 
pression  to  the  hazel  eyes  ;  nothing  more  finely  cut  than  the 
transparent  nostril  and  the  short  upper-lip.  Perhaps  the  chin 
and  lower  jaw  were  too  small  for  an  irreproachable  profile, 
but  the  defect  was  on  the  side  of  that  delicacy  and  finesse 
which  was  the  distinctive  characteristic  of  the  whole  person, 
and  which  was  carried  out  in  the  clear  brown  arch  of  the 
eyebrows,  and  the  marble  smoothness  of  the  sloping  forehead. 
Impossible  to  say  that  this  face  was  not  eminently  hand¬ 
some;  j'et,  for  the  majority,  both  of  men  and  women,  it  was 
destitute  of  charm.  Women  disliked  eyes  that  seemed  to  be 
indolently  accepting  admiration  instead  of  rendering  it ;  and 
men,  especially  if  they  had  a  tendency  to  clumsiness  in  the 
nose  and  ankles,  were  inclined  to  think  this  Antinous  in  a 
pigtail  a  “confounded  puppy.”  I  fancy  that  was  frequently 
the  inward  interjection  of  the  Rev.  Maynard  Gilfil,  who  was 
seated  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  dining-table,  though  Mr. 
GilfiFs  legs  and  profile  were  not  at  all  of  a  kind  to  make  him 
peculiarly  alive  to  the  impertinence  and  frivolity  of  personal 
advantages.  His  healthy  open  face  and  robust  limbs  were 
after  an  excellent  pattern  for  every-day  wear,  and,  in  the 
opinion  of  Mr.  Bates,  the  north-country  gardener,  would  have 
become  regimentals  “  a  fain  saight  ”  better  than  the  “  peaky  ” 
features  and  slight  form  of  Captain  Wybrow,  notwithstanding 
that  this  young  gentleman,  as  Sir  Christopher’s  nephew  and 
destined  heir,  had  the  strongest  hereditary  claim  on  the 
gardener’s  respect,  and  was  undeniably  “  clean-limbed.”  But 
alas  !  human  longings  are  perversely  obstinate ;  and  to  the 
man  whose  mouth  is  watering  for  a  peach,  it  is  of  no  use  to 
offer  the  largest  vegetable  marrow.  Mr.  Gilfil  was  not  sensi¬ 
tive  to  Mr.  Bates’s  opinion,  whereas  he  was  sensitive  to  the 
opinion  of  another  person,  who  by  no  means  shared  Mr. 
Bates’s  preference. 

Who  the  other  person  was  it  would  not  have  required  a  very 


104 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


keen  observer  to  guess,  from  a  certain  eagerness  in  Mr,  Gilfil’s 
glance  as  that  little  figure  in  white  tripped  along  the  lawn 
with  the  cushions.  Captain  Wybrow,  too,  was  looking  in  the 
sanle  direction,  but  his  handsome  face  remained  handsome  — 
and  nothing  more. 

“Ah,”  said  Sir  Christopher,  looking  up  from  his  paper, 
“  there ’s  my  lady.  Ring  for  coffee,  Anthony  ;  we  ’ll  go  and 
join  her,  and  the  little  monkey  Tina  shall  give  us  a  song.” 

The  coffee  presently  appeared,  brought  — not  as  usual  by 
the  footman,  in  scarlet  and  drab,  but  —  by  the  old  butler,  in 
threadbare  but  well-brushed  black,  who,  as  he  was  placing  it 
on  the  table,  said  — 

“  If  you  please,  Sir  Christopher,  there ’s  the  widow  Hartopp 
a-crying  P  the  still-room,  and  begs  leave  to  see  your  honor.” 

“  I  have  given  Markham  full  orders  about  the  widow  Har¬ 
topp”  said  Sir  Christopher,  in  a  sharp  decided  tone.  “I  have 
nothing  to  say  to  her.” 

«  Your  honor,”  pleaded  the  butler,  rubbing  his  hands,  and 
putting  on  an  additional  coating  of  humility,  “  the  pool  wo¬ 
man  ’s  dreadful  overcome,  and  says  she  can’t  sleep  a  wink  this 
blessed  night  without  seeing  your  honor,  and  she  begs  you  to 
pardon  the  great  freedom  she ’s  took  to  come  at  this  time. 
She  cries  fit  to  break  her  heart.” 

“  Ay,  ay ;  water  pays  no  tax.  Well,  show  her  into  the 

library.” 

Coffee  despatched,  the  two  young  men  walked  out  through 
the  open  window,  and  joined  the  ladies  on  the  lawn,  while  Sir 
Christopher  made  his  way  to  the  library,  solemnly  followed 
by  Rupert,  his  pet  blood-hound,  who,  in  his  habitual  place  at 
the  Baronet’s  right  hand,  behaved  with  great  urbanity  during 
dinner  ;  but  when  the  cloth  was  drawn,  invariably  disappeared 
under  the  table,  apparently  regarding  the  claret-jug  as  a 
mere  human  weakness,  which  he  winked  at,  but  refused  to 
sanction. 

The  library  lay  but  three  steps  from  the  dining-room,  on  the 
other  side  of  a  cloistered  and  matted  passage.  The  oriel  win¬ 
dow  was  overshadowed  by  the  great  beech,  and  this,  with  the 
flat  heavily  carved  ceiling  and  the  dark  hue  of  the  old  books 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


105 


that  lined  the  walls,  made  the  room  look  sombre,  especially  on 
entering  it  from  the  dining-room,  with  its  aerial  curves  and 
cream-colored  fretwork  touched  with  gold.  As  Sir  Christo¬ 
pher  opened  the  door,  a  jet  of  brighter  light  fell  on  a  woman 
in  a  widow’s  dress,  who  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and 
made  the  deepest  of  curtsies  as  he  entered.  She  was  a  buxom 
woman  approaching  forty,  her  eyes  red  with  the  tears  which 
had  evidently  been  absorbed  by  the  handkerchief  gathered 
into  a  damp  ball  in  her  right  hand. 

“  Now,  Mrs.  Hartopp,”  said  Sir  Christopher,  taking  out  his 
gold  snuff-box  and  tapping  the  lid,  “  what  have  you  to  say 
to  me  ?  Markham  has  delivered  you  a  notice  to  quit,  I 
suppose  ? ” 

“  Oh  yis,  your  honor,  an*  that ’s  the  reason  why  I ’ve  come. 
I  hope  your  honor  ’ll  think  better  on  it,  an’  not  turn  me  an’ 
my  poor  children  out  o’  the  farm,  where  my  husband  al’ys 
paid  his  rent  as  reglar  as  the  day  come.” 

“  Nonsense !  I  should  like  to  know  what  good  it  will  do  you 
and  your  children  to  stay  on  a  farm  and  lose  every  farthing 
your  husband  has  left  you,  instead  of  selling  your  stock  and 
going  into  some  little  place  where  you  can  keep  your  money 
together.  It  is  very  well  known  to  every  tenant  of  mine  that 
I  never  allow  widows  to  stay  on  their  husband’s  farms.” 

“  Oh,  Sir  Christifer,  if  you  ivould  consider  —  when  I ’ve  sold 
the  hay  an’  corn,  an’  all  the  live  things,  an’  paid  the  debts,  an’ 
put  the  money  out  to  use,  I  shall  have  hardly  enough  to  keep 
our  souls  an’  bodies  together.  An’  how  can  I  rear  my  boys 
and  put  ’em  ’prentice  ?  They  must  go  for  day  laborers,  an’ 
their  father  a  man  wi’  as  good  belongings  as  any  on  your 
honor’s  estate,  an’  niver  threshed  his  wheat  afore  it  was  well 
i’  the  rick,  nor  sold  the  straw  off  his  farm,  nor  nothin’.  Ask 
all  the  farmers  round  if  there  was  a  stiddier,  soberer  man  than 
my  husband  as  attended  Ripstone  market.  An’  he  says, 

1  Bessie,’  says  he  —  them  was  his  last  words  —  ‘  you  ’ll  mek 
a  shift  to  manage  the  farm,  if  Sir  Christifer  ’ull  let  you  stay 
on.’  ” 

“Pooh,  pooh!”  said  Sir  Christopher,  Mrs.  Hartopp’s  sobs 
having  interrupted  her  pleadings,  “  now  listen  to  me,  and  try 


106 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


io  understand  a  little  common-sense.  You  are  about  as  abk 
to  manage  the  farm  as  your  best  milch  cow.  You  ’ll  be  obliged 
to  have  some  managing  man,  who  will  either  cheat  you  out  of 
your  money,  or  wheedle  you  into  marrying  him.” 

“  Oh,  your  honor,  I  was  never  that  sort  o’  woman,  an’  nobody 
has  known  it  on  me.” 

“Very  likely  not,  because  you  were  never  a  widow  before. 
A  woman  ’s  always  silly  enough,  but  she ’s  never  quite  as  great 
a  fool  as  she  can  be  until  she  puts  on  a  widow’s  cap.  Now, 
just  ask  yourself  how  much  the  better  you  will  be  for  staying 
on  your  farm  at  the  end  of  four  years,  when  you ’ve  got 
through  your  money,  and  let  your  farm  run  down,  and  are  in 
arrears  for  half  your  rent ;  or,  perhaps,  have  got  some  great 
hulky  fellow  for  a  husband,  who  swears  at  you  and  kicks  your 
children.” 

“  Indeed,  Sir  Christifer,  I  know  a  deal  o’  farmin’,  an’  was 
brought  up  i’  the  thick  on  it,  as  you  may  say.  An’  there  was 
my  husband’s  great-aunt  managed  a  farm  for  twenty  year,  an’ 
left  legacies  to  all  her  nephys  an’  nieces,  an’  even  to  my  hus¬ 
band,  as  was  then  a  babe  unborn.” 

“  Psha !  a  woman  six  feet  high,  with  a  squint  and  sharp 
elbows,  I  dare  say  —  a  man  in  petticoats.  Not  a  rosy-cheeked 
widow  like  you,  Mrs.  Hartopp.” 

“Indeed,  your  honor,  I  never  heard  of  her  squintin’,  an* 
they  said  as  she  might  ha’  been  married  o’er  and  o’er  again, 
to  people  as  had  no  call  to  hanker  after  her  money.” 

“  Ay,  ay,  that ’s  what  you  all  think.  Every  man  that  looks 
at  you  wants  to  marry  you,  and  would  like  you  the  better  the 
more  children  you  have  and  the  less  money.  But  it  is  useless 
to  talk  and  cry.  I  have  good  reasons  for  my  plans,  and  never 
alter  them.  What  you  have  to  do  is  to  make  the  best  of  your 
stock,  and  to  look  out  for  some  little  place  to  go  to,  when  you 
leave  The  Hollows.  Now,  go  back  to  Mrs.  Bellamy’s  room, 
and  ask  her  to  give  you  a  dish  of  tea.” 

Mrs.  Hartopp,  understanding  from  Sir  Christopher’s  tone 
that  he  was  not  to  be  shaken,  curtsied  low  and  left  the  library, 
while  the  Baronet,  seating  himself  at  his  desk  in  the  oriel 
window,  wrote  the  following  letter:  — 


MR.  GILFILV;  LOVE-STORY. 


101 

Mr.  Markham,  —  Take  no  steps  about  letting  Crowsloot  Cottage, 
as  I  intend  to  put  in  the  widow  Hartopp  when  she  leaves  her  farm; 
and  if  you  will  be  here  at  eleven  on  Saturday  morning,  I  will  ride 
round  with  you,  and  settle  about  making  some  repairs,  and  see  about 
adding  a  bit  of  land  to  the  take,  as  she  will  want  to  keep  a  cow  and 
some  pigs.  Yours  faithfully, 

Christopher  Cheverel 

After  ringing  the  bell  and  ordering  this  letter  to  be  sent, 
Sir  Christopher  walked  out  to  join  the  party  on  the  lawn. 
But  finding  the  cushions  deserted,  he  walked  on  to  the  eastern, 
front  of  the  building,  where,  by  the  side  of  the  grand  entrance, 
was  the  large  bow-window  of  the  saloon,  opening  on  to  the 
gravel-sweep,  and  looking  towards  a  long  vista  of  undulating 
turf,  bordered  by  tall  trees,  which,  seeming  to  unite  itself  with 
the  green  of  the  meadows  and  a  grassy  road  through  a  planta¬ 
tion,  only  terminated  with  the  Gothic  arch  of  a  gateway  in  thf', 
far  distance.  The  bow-window  was  open,  and  Sir  Christopher, 
stepping  in,  found  the  group  he  sought,  examining  the  prog¬ 
ress  of  the  unfinished  ceiling.  It  was  in  the  same  style  of 
florid  pointed  Gothic  as  the  dining-room,  but  more  elaborate 
in  its  tracery,  which  was  like  petrified  lace-work  picked  out 
with  delicate  and  varied  coloring.  About  a  fourth  of  it  still 
remained  uncolored,  and  under  this  part  were  scaffolding,  lad¬ 
ders,  and  tools ;  otherwise  the  spacious  saloon  was  empty  of 
furniture,  and  seemed  to  be  a  grand  Gothic  canopy  for  the 
group  of  five  human  figures  standing  in  the  centre. 

“  Francesco  has  been  getting  on  a  little  better  the  last  day 
or  two,”  said  Sir  Christopher,  as  he  joined  the  party  :  “he ’s  a 
sad  lazy  dog,  and  I  fancy  he  has  a  knack  of  sleeping  as  he 
stands,  with  his  brushes  in  his  hands.  But  I  must  spur  him 
on,  or  we  may  not  have  the  scaffolding  cleared  away  before 
the  bride  comes,  if  you  show  dexterous  generalship  in  your 
wooing,  eh,  Anthony  ?  and  take  your  Magdeburg  quickly.” 

“Ah,  sir,  a  siege  is  known  to  be  one  of  the  most  tedious 
operations  in  war,”  said  Captain  Wybrow,  with  an  easy  smile. 

“Not  when  there ’s  a  traitor  within  the  walls  in  the  shape 
of  a  soft  heart.  And  that  there  will  be,  if  Beatrice  has  her 
mother’s  tenderness  as  well  as  her  mother’s  beauty.” 


108 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


“  What  do  you  think,  Sir  Christoph er,”  said  Lady  Cheverel, 
who  seemed  to  wince  a  little  under  her  husband’s  reminis¬ 
cences,  “of  hanging  Guercino’s  ‘  Sibyl’  over  that  door  when  we 
put  up  the  pictures  ?  It  is  rather  lost  in  my  sitting-room.” 

“Very  good,  my  love,”  answered  Sir  Christopher,  in  a  tone 
of  punctiliously  polite  affection  ;  “  if  you  like  to  part  with  the 
ornament  from  your  own  room,  it  will  show  admirably  hera 
Our  portraits,  by  Sir  Joshua,  will  hang  opposite  the  window, 
and  the  ‘  Transfiguration  ’  at  that  end.  You  see,  Anthony,  I 
am  leaving  no  good  places  on  the  walls  for  you  and  your  wife. 
We  shall  turn  you  with  your  faces  to  the  wall  in  the  gallery, 
and  you  may  take  your  revenge  on  us  by-and-by.” 

While  this  conversation  was  going  on,  Mr.  Gilfil  turned  to 
Caterina  and  said  — 

“  I  like  the  view  from  this  window  better  than  any  other  in 
the  house.” 

She  made  no  answer,  and  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were  filling 
with  tears ;  so  he  added,  “  Suppose  we  walk  out  a  little ;  Sir 
Christopher  and  my  lady  seem  to  be  occupied.” 

Caterina  complied  silently,  and  they  turned  down  one  of  the 
gravel  walks  that  led,  after  many  windings  under  tall  trees 
and  among  grassy  openings,  to  a  large  enclosed  flower-garden. 
Their  walk  was  perfectly  silent,  for  Maynard  Gilfil  knew  that 
Caterina’s  thoughts  were  not  with  him,  and  she  had  been  long 
used  to  make  him  endure  the  weight  of  those  moods  which 
she  carefully  hid  from  others. 

They  reached  the  flower-garden,  and  turned  mechanically  in 
at  the  gate  that  opened,  through  a  high  thick  hedge,  on  an 
expanse  of  brilliant  color,  which,  after  the  green  shades  they 
had  passed  through,  startled  the  eye  like  flames.  The  effect 
was  assisted  by  an  undulation  of  the  ground,  which  gradually 
descended  from  the  entrance-gate,  and  then  rose  again  towards 
the  opposite  end,  crowned  by  an  orangery.  The  flowers  were 
glowing  with  their  evening  splendors  ;  verbenas  and  helio¬ 
tropes  were  sending  up  their  finest  incense.  It  seemed  a  gala 
where  all  was  happiness  and  brilliancy,  and  misery  could  find 
no  sympathy.  This  was  the  effect  it  had  on  Caterina.  As  she 
wound  among  the  beds  of  gold  and  blue  and  pink,  where  the 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


109 


flowers  seemed  to  be  looking  at  her  with  wondering  elf-like 
eyes,  knowing  nothing  of  sorrow,  the  feeling  of  isolation  in 
her  wretchedness  overcame  her,  and  the  tears,  which  had  been 
before  trickling  slowly  down  her  pale  cheeks,  now  gushed 
forth  accompanied  with  sobs.  And  yet  there  was  a  loving 
human  being  close  beside  her,  whose  heart  was  aching  for 
hers,  who  was  possessed  by  the  feeling  that  she  was  miserable, 
and  that  he  was  helpless  to  soothe  her.  But  she  was  too  much 
irritated  by  the  idea  that  his  wishes  were  different  from  hers, 
that  he  rather  regretted  the  folly  of  her  hopes  than  the  proba¬ 
bility  of  their  disappointment,  to  take  any  comfort  in  his 
sympathy.  Caterina,  like  the  rest  of  us,  turned  away  from 
sympathy  which  she  suspected  to  be  mingled  with  criticism,  as 
the  child  turns  away  from  the  sweetmeat  in  which  it  suspects 
imperceptible  medicine. 

“Dear  Caterina,  I  think  I  hear  voices,”  said  Mr.  Gilfil; 
“they  may  be  coming  this  way.” 

She  checked  herself  like  one  accustomed  to  conceal  her 
emotions,  and  ran  rapidly  to  the  other  end  of  the  garden, 
where  she  seemed  occupied  in  selecting  a  rose.  Presently 
Lady  Cheverel  entered,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Captain  Wybrow, 
and  followed  by  Sir  Christopher.  The  party  stopped  to  ad¬ 
mire  the  tiers  of  geraniums  near  the  gate ;  and  in  the  mean 
time  Caterina  tripped  back  with  a  moss  rose-bud  in  her  hand, 
and,  going  up  to  Sir  Christopher,  said  —  “  There,  Padroncello 
—  there  is  a  nice  rose  for  your  button-hole.” 

“Ah,  you  black-eyed  monkey,”  he  said,  fondly  stroking  her 
cheek ;  “  so  you  have  been  running  off  with  Maynard,  either 
to  torment  or  coax  him  an  inch  or  two  deeper  into  love.  Come, 
come,  I  want  you  to  sing  us  ‘  Ho  perduto  ’  before  we  sit  down 
to  picquet.  Anthony  goes  to-morrow,  you  know;  you  must 
warble  him  into  the  right  sentimental  lover’s  mood,  that  he 
may  acquit  himself  well  at  Bath.”  He  put  her  little  arm 
under  his,  and  calling  to  Lady  Cheverel,  “  Come,  Henrietta  !  ” 
led  the  way  towards  the  house. 

The  party  entered  the  drawing-room,  which,  with  its  oriel 
window,  corresponded  to  the  library  in  the  other  wing,  and 
had  also  a  flat  ceiling  heavy  with  carving  aud  blazonry ;  but 


110 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


the  window  being  unshaded,  and  the  walls  hung  with  full- 
length  portraits  of  knights  and  dames  in  scarlet,  white,  and 
gold,  it  had  not  the  sombre  effect  of  the  library.  Here  hung 
the  portrait  of  Sir  Anthony  Cheverel,  who  in  the  reign  of 
Charles  II.  was  the  renovator  of  the  family  splendor,  which 
had  suffered  some  declension  from  the  early  brilliancy  of  that 
Chevreuil  who  came  over  with  the  Conqueror.  A  very  impos¬ 
ing  personage  was  this  Sir  Anthony,  standing  with  one  arm 
akimbo,  and  one  fine  leg  and  foot  advanced,  evidently  with  a 
view  to  the  gratification  of  his  contemporaries  and  posterity. 
You  might  have  taken  off  his  splendid  peruke,  and  his  scarlet 
cloak,  which  was  thrown  backward  from  his  shoulders,  with¬ 
out  annihilating  the  dignity  of  his  appearance.  And  he  had 
known  how  to  choose  a  wife,  too,  for  his  lady,  hanging  oppo¬ 
site  to  him,  with  her  sunny  brown  hair  drawn  away  in  bands 
from  her  mild  grave  face,  and  falling  in  two  large  rich  curls 
on  her  snowy  gently  sloping  neck,  which  shamed  the  harsher 
hue  and  outline  of  her  white  satin  robe,  was  a  fit  mother  of 
“  large-acred  ”  heirs. 

In  this  room  tea  was  served ;  and  here,  every  evening,  as 
regularly  as  the  great  clock  in  the  court-yard  with  deliberate 
bass  tones  struck  nine,  Sir  Christopher  and  Lady  Cheverel  sat 
down  to  picquet  until  half-past  ten,  when  Mr.  Gilfil  read 
prayers  to  the  assembled  household  in  the  chapel. 

But  now  it  was  not  near  nine,  and  Caterina  must  sit  down 
to  the  harpsichord  and  sing  Sir  Christopher’s  favorite  airs,  by 
Gluck  and  Paesiello,  whose  operas,  for  the  happiness  of  that 
generation,  were  then  to  be  heard  on  the  London  stage.  It 
happened  this  evening  that  the  sentiment  of  these  airs,  “  Che 
faro  senza  Eurydice  ?  ”  and  “  Ho  perduto  il  bel  sembiante ,”  in 
both  of  which  the  singer  pours  out  his  yearning  after  his  lost 
love,  came  very  close  to  Caterina’s  own  feeling.  But  her 
emotion,  instead  of  being  a  hindrance  to  her  singing,  gave  her 
additional  power.  Her  singing  was  what  she  could  do  best ; 
it  was  her  one  point  of  superiority,  in  which  it  was  probable 
she  would  excel  the  highborn  beauty  whom  Anthony  was  to 
woo ;  and  her  love,  her  jealousy,  her  pride,  her  rebellion 
against  her  destiny,  made  one  stream  of  passion  which  welled 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


Ill 


forth  in  the  deep  rich  tones  of  her  voice.  She  had  a  rare  con¬ 
tralto,  which  Lady  Cheverel,  who  had  high  musical  taste,  had 
been  careful  to  preserve  her  from  straining. 

“  Excellent,  Caterina,”  said  Lady  Cheverel,  as  there  was  a 
pause  after  the  wonderful  linked  sweetness  of  “  Che  faro.” 
CiI  never  heard  you  sing  that  so  well.  Once  more  !  ” 

It  was  repeated ;  and  then  came,  u  IIo  perdutof  which  Sir 
Christopher  encored,  in  spite  of  the  clock,  just  striking  nine. 
When  the  last  note  was  dying  out  he  said  — 

“  There  ’s  a  clever  black-eyed  monkey.  Now  bring  out  the 
table  for  picquet.” 

Caterina  drew  out  the  table  and  placed  the  cards  ;  then, 
with  her  rapid  fairy  suddenness  of  motion,  threw  herself  on 
her  knees,  and  clasped  Sir  Christopher’s  knee.  He  bent  down, 
stroked  her  cheek,  and  smiled. 

“  Caterina,  that  is  foolish,”  said  Lady  Cheverel.  “  I  wish 
you  would  leave  off  those  stage-players’  antics.” 

She  jumped  up,  arranged  the  music  on  the  harpsichord, 
and  then,  seeing  the  Baronet  and  his  lady  seated  at  picquet, 
quietly  glided  out  of  the  room. 

Captain  Wybrow  had  been  leaning  near  the  harpsichord 
during  the  singing,  and  the  chaplain  had  thrown  himself  on  a 
sofa  at  the  end  of  the  room.  They  both  now  took  up  a  book. 
Mr.  Gilfil  chose  the  last  number  of  the  “  Gentleman’s  Maga¬ 
zine  ;  ”  Captain  Wybrow,  stretched  on  an  ottoman  near  the 
door,  opened  “  Faublas  ;  ”  and  there  was  perfect  silence  in  the 
room  which,  ten  minutes  before,  was  vibrating  to  the  passion¬ 
ate  tones  of  Caterina. 

She  had  made  her  way  along  the  cloistered  passages,  now 
lighted  here  and  there  by  a  small  oil-lamp,  to  the  grand-stair¬ 
case,  which  led  directly  to  a  gallery  running  along  the  whole 
eastern  side  of  the  building,  where  it  was  her  habit  to  walk 
when  she  wished  to  be  alone.  The  bright  moonlight  was 
streaming  through  the  windows,  throwing  into  strange  light 
and  shadow  the  heterogeneous  objects  that  lined  the  long 
walls :  Greek  statues  and  busts  of  Roman  emperors ;  low 
cabinets  filled  with  curiosities,  natural  and  antiquarian  ;  tropi¬ 
cal  birds  and  huge  horns  of  beasts  ;  Hindoo  gods  and  strange 


112 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


shells  ;  swords  and  daggers,  and  bits  of  chain-armor ;  Roman 
lamps  and  tiny  models  of  Greek  temples ;  and,  above  all  these, 
queer  old  family  portraits  —  of  little  boys  and  girls,  once  the 
hope  of  the  Cheverels,  with  close-sliaven  heads  imprisoned  in 
stiff  ruffs  —  of  faded,  pink-faced  ladies,  with  rudimentary 
features  and  highly  developed  head-dresses  —  of  gallant  gentle¬ 
men,  with  high  hips,  high  shoulders,  and  red  pointed  beards. 

Here,  on  rainy  days,  Sir  Christopher  and  his  lady  took  their 
promenade,  and  here  billiards  were  played ;  but,  in  the  even¬ 
ing,  it  was  forsaken  by  all  except  Caterina  —  and,  sometimes, 
one  other  person. 

She  paced  up  and  down  in  the  moonlight,  her  pale  face  and 
thin  white-robed  form  making  her  look  like  the  ghost  of  some 
former  Lady  Cheverel  come  to  revisit  the  glimpses  of  the 
moon. 

By-and-by  she  paused  opposite  the  broad  window  above  the 
portico,  and  looked  out  on  the  long  vista  of  turf  and  trees  now 
stretching  chill  and  saddened  in  the  moonlight. 

Suddenly  a  breath  of  warmth  and  roses  seemed  to  float 
towards  her,  and  an  arm  stole  gently  round  her  waist,  while  a 
soft  hand  took  up  her  tiny  fingers.  Caterina  felt  an  electric 
thrill,  and  was  motionless  for  one  long  moment ;  then  she 
pushed  away  the  arm  and  hand,  and,  turning  round,  lifted  up 
to  the  face  that  hung  over  her,  eyes  full  of  tenderness  and 
reproach.  The  fawn-like  unconsciousness  was  gone,  and  in 
that  one  look  were  the  ground  tones  of  poor  little  Caterina’s 
nature  —  intense  love  and  fierce  jealousy. 

“  Why  do  you  push  me  away,  Tina  ?  ”  said  Captain  Wybrow 
in  a  half-whisper ;  "  are  you  angry  with  me  for  what  a  hard 
fate  puts  upon  me  ?  Would  you  have  me  cross  my  uncle  — 
who  has  done  so  much  for  us  both  —  in  his  dearest  wish  ? 
You  know  I  have  duties  — we  both  have  duties  —  before 
which  feeling  must  be  sacrificed.” 

“  Yes,  yes,”  said  Caterina,  stamping  her  foot,  and  turning 
away  her  head  ;  “  don’t  tell  me  what  I  know  already.” 

There  was  a  voice  speaking  in  Caterina’s  mind  to  which  she 
had  never  yet  given  vent.  That  voice  said  continually,  “  Why 
did  he  make  me  love  him  —  why  did  he  let  me  know  he  loved 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


113 


me,  if  he  knew  all  the  while  that  he  couldn’t  brave  every¬ 
thing  for  my  sake  ?  ”  Then  love  answered,  “  He  was  led  on  by 
the  feeling  of  the  moment,  as  you  have  been,  Caterina;  and 
now  you  ought  to  help  him  to  do  what  is  right.”  Then  the 
voice  rejoined,  “  It  was  a  slight  matter  to  him.  He  does  n’t 
much  mind  giving  you  up.  He  will  soon  love  that  beautiful 
woman,  and  forget  a  poor  little  pale  thing  like  you.” 

Thus  love,  anger,  and  jealousy  were  struggling  in  that 
young  soul. 

“  Besides,  Tina,”  continued  Captain  Wybrow  in  still  gentler 
tones,  “  I  shall  not  succeed.  Miss  Assher  very  likely  prefers 
some  one  else ;  and  you  know  I  have  the  best  will  in  the 
world  to  fail.  I  shall  come  back  a  hapless  bachelor  —  perhaps 
to  find  you  already  married  to  the  good-looking  chaplain,  who 
is  over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  you.  Poor  Sir  Christopher 
has  made  up  his  mind  that  you  ’re  to  have  Gilfil.” 

“  Why  will  you  speak  so  ?  You  speak  from  your  own  want 
of  feeling.  Go  away  from  me.” 

“  Don’t  let  us  part  in  anger,  Tina.  All  this  may  pass  away. 
It  ’s  as  likely  as  not  that  I  may  never  marry  any  one  at  all, 
These  palpitations  may  carry  me  off,  and  you  may  have  the 
satisfaction  of  knowing  that  I  shall  never  be  anybody’s  bride¬ 
groom.  Who  knows  what  may  happen  ?  I  may  be  my  own 
master  before  I  get  into  the  bonds  of  holy  matrimony,  and  be 
able  to  choose  my  little  singing-bird.  Why  should  we  distress 
ourselves  before  the  time  ?  ” 

“  It  is  easy  to  talk  so  when  you  are  not  feeling,”  said  Cate- 
rina,  the  tears  flowing  fast.  “  It  is  bad  to  bear  now,  whatever 
may  come  after.  But  you  don’t  care  about  my  misery.” 

“  Don’t  I,  Tina  ?  ”  said  Anthony  in  his  tenderest  tones, 
again  stealing  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  drawing  her 
towards  him.  Poor  Tina  was  the  slave  of  this  voice  and  touch. 
Grief  and  resentment,  retrospect  and  foreboding,  vanished  — 
all  life  before  and  after  melted  away  in  the  bliss  of  that 
moment,  as  Anthony  pressed  his  lips  to  hers. 

Captain  Wybrow  thought,  “  Poor  Little  Tina !  would 
make  her  very  happy  to  have  me.  But  she  is  a  mad  little 
thing.” 

VOL.  IV. 


114 


SCENES  OF  CLEKICAL  LIFE. 


At  that  moment  a  loud  bell  startled  Caterina  from  her 
trance  of  bliss.  It  was  the  summons  to  prayers  in  the  chapel, 
and  she  hastened  away,  leaving  Captain  Wybrow  to  follow 
slowly. 

It  was  a  pretty  sight,  that  family  assembled  to  worship  in 
the  little  chapel,  where  a  couple  of  wax-candles  threw  a  mild 
faint  light  on  the  figures  kneeling  there.  In  the  desk  was 
Mr.  Gilfil,  with  his  face  a  shade  graver  than  usual.  On  his 
right  hand,  kneeling  on  their  red  velvet  cushions,  were  the 
master  and  mistress  of  the  household,  in  their  elderly  digni¬ 
fied  beauty.  On  his  left,  the  youthful  grace  of  Anthony  and 
Caterina,  in  all  the  striking  contrast  of  their  coloring — he, 
with  his  exquisite  outline  and  rounded  fairness,  like  an  Olym¬ 
pian  god ;  she,  dark  and  tiny,  like  a  gypsy  changeling.  Then 

there  were  the  domestics  kneeling  on  red-covered  forms, _ 

the  women  headed  by  Mrs.  Bellamy,  the  natty  little  old  house¬ 
keeper,  in  snowy  cap  and  apron,  and  Mrs.  Sharp,  my  lady's 
maid,  of  somewhat  vinegar  aspect  and  flaunting  attire  ;  the 
men  by  Mr.  Bellamy  the  butler,  and  Mr.  Warren,  Sir  Christo¬ 
pher’s  venerable  valet. 

A  few  collects  from  the  Evening  Service  were  what  Mr. 
Gilfil  habitually  read,  ending  with  the  simple  petition, 
“  Lighten  our  darkness.” 

And  then  they  all  rose,  the  servants  turning  to  curtsy  and 
bow  as  they  went  out.  The  family  returned  to  the  drawing¬ 
room,  said  good-night  to  each  other,  and  dispersed —all  to 
speedy  slumber  except  two.  Caterina  only  cried  herself  to 
sleep  after  the  clock  had  struck  twelve.  Mr.  Gilfil  lay  awake 
still  longer,  thinking  that  very  likely  Caterina  was  crying. 

Captain  Wybrow,  having  dismissed  his  valet  at  eleven,  was 
soon  in  a  soft  slumber,  his  face  looking  like  a  fine  cameo  in 
high  relief  on  the  slightly  indented  pillow. 


MR  GILML’S  LOVE-STORY. 


115 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  last  chapter  has  given  the  discerning  reader  sufficient 
insight  into  the  state  of  things  at  Cheverel  Manor  in  the 
summer  of  1788.  In  that  summer,  we  know,  the  great  nation 
of  France  was  agitated  by  conflicting  thoughts  and  passions, 
which  were  but  the  beginning  of  sorrows.  And  in  our  Cate¬ 
rings  little  breast,  too,  there  were  terrible  struggles.  The 
poor  bird  was  beginning  to  flutter  and  vainly  dash  its  soft 
breast  against  the  hard  iron  bars  of  the  inevitable,  and  we 
see  too  plainly  the  danger,  if  that  anguish  should  go  on 
heightening  instead  of  being  allayed,  that  the  palpitating  heart 
may  be  fatally  bruised. 

Meanwhile,  if,  as  I  hope,  you  feel  some  interest  in  Caterina 
and  her  friends  at  Cheverel  Manor,  you  are  perhaps  asking, 
How  came  she  to  be  there  ?  How  was  it  that  this  tiny  dark¬ 
eyed  child  of  the  south,  whose  face  was  immediately  sugges¬ 
tive  of  olive-covered  hills  and  taper-lit  shrines,  came  to  have 
her  home  in  that  stately  English  manor-house,  by  the  side  of 
the  blond  matron,  Lady  Cheverel  —  almost  as  if  a  humming¬ 
bird  were  found  perched  on  one  of  the  elm-trees  in  the  park, 
by  the  side  of  her  ladyship’s  handsomest  pouter-pigeon  ? 
Speaking  good  English,  too,  and  joining  in  Protestant  prayers  ? 
Surely  she  must  have  been  adopted  and  brought  over  to  Eng¬ 
land  at  a  very  early  age.  She  was. 

During  Sir  Christopher’s  last  visit  to  Italy  with  his  lady, 
fifteen  years  before,  they  resided  for  some  time  at  Milan,  where 
Sir  Christopher,  who  was  an  enthusiast  for  Gothic  archi¬ 
tecture,  and  was  then  entertaining  the  project  of  metamor¬ 
phosing  his  plain  brick  family  mansion  into  the  model  of  a 
Gothic  manor-house,  was  bent  on  studying  the  details  of  that 
marble  miracle,  the  Cathedral.  Here  Lady  Cheverel,  as  at 
other  Italian  cities  where  she  made  any  protracted  stay,  en 
gaged  a  maestro  to  give  her  lessons  in  singing,  for  she  had 
then  not  only  fine  musical  taste,  but  a  fin©  soprano  voice. 


116 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


Those  were  days  when  very  rich  people  used  manuscript 
music,  and  many  a  man  who  resembled  Jean  Jacques  in  noth¬ 
ing  else,  resembled  him  in  getting  a  livelihood  “a  copier  la 
musique  k  taut  la  page/’  Lady  Cheverel  having  need  of  this 
service,  Maestro  Albani  told  her  he  would  send  her  a  poveraccio 
of  his  acquaintance,  whose  manuscript  was  the  neatest  and 
most  correct  he  knew  of.  Unhappily,  the  poveraccio  was  not 
always  in  his  best  wits,  and  was  sometimes  rather  slow  in 
consequence;  but  it  would  be  a  work  of  Christian  charity 
worthy  of  the  beautiful  Signora  to  employ  poor  Sarti. 

The  next  morning,  Mrs.  Sharp,  then  a  blooming  abigail  of 
three-and-thirty,  entered  her  lady’s  private  room  and  said, 
“If  y°u  please,  my  lady,  there’s  the  frowiest,  shabbiest  man 
you  ever  saw,  outside,  and  he ’s  told  Mr.  Warren  as  the 
singing-master  sent  him  to  see  your  ladyship.  But  I  think 
you  ’ll  hardly  like  him  to  come  in  here.  Belike  he ’s  only  a 
beggar.” 

“  Oh  yes,  show  him  in  immediately.” 

Mrs.  Sharp  retired,  muttering  something  about  “  fleas  and 
worse.”  She  had  the  smallest  possible  admiration  for  fair 
Ausonia  and  its  natives,  and  even  her  profound  deference  for 
Sir  Christopher  and  her  lady  could  not  prevent  her  from  ex¬ 
pressing  her  amazement  at  the  infatuation  of  gentlefolks  in 
choosing  to  sojourn  among  “  Papises,  in  countries  where  there 
was  no  getting  to  air  a  bit  o’  linen,  and  where  the  people  smelt 
o’  garlic  fit  to  knock  you  down.” 

However  she  presently  reappeared,  ushering  in  a  small 
meagre  man,  sallow  and  dingy,  with  a  restless  wandering  look 
in  his  dull  eyes,  and  an  excessive  timidity  about  his  deep 
reverences,  which  gave  him  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  been 
long  a  solitary  prisoner.  Yet  through  all  this  squalor  and 
wretchedness  there  were  some  traces  discernible  of  compara¬ 
tive  youth  and  former  good  looks.  Lady  Cheverel,  though 
not  very  tender-hearted,  still  less  sentimental,  was  essentially 
kind,  and  liked  to  dispense  benefits  like  a  goddess,  who  looks 
down  benignly  on  the  nalt,  the  maimed,  and  the  blind  that 
approach  her  shrine.  She  was  smitten  with  some  compassion 
at  the  sight  of  poor  Sarti,  who  struck  her  as  the  mere  battered 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


11? 


wreck  of  a  vessel  that  might  have  once  floated  gayly  enough 
on  its  outward  voyage  to  the  sound  of  pipes  and  tabors.  She 
spoke  gently  as  she  pointed  out  to  him  the  operatic  selections 
she  wished  him  to  copy,  and  he  seemed  to  sun  himself  in  her 
auburn,  radiant  presence,  so  that  when  he  made  his  exit  with 
the  music-books  under  his  arm,  his  bow,  though  not  less  rever¬ 
ent,  was  less  timid. 

It  was  ten  years  at  least  since  Sarti  had  seen  anything  so 
bright  and  stately  and  beautiful  as  Lady  Clieverel.  For  the 
time  was  far  off  in  which  he  had  trod  the  stage  in  satin  and 
feathers,  the  primo  tenor e  of  one  short  season.  He  had  com¬ 
pletely  lost  his  voice  in  the  following  winter,  and  had  ever 
since  been  little  better  than  a  cracked  fiddle,  which  is  good 
for  nothing  but  firewood.  For,  like  many  Italian  singers,  he 
was  too  ignorant  to  teach,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  his  one 
talent  of  penmanship,  he  and  his  young  helpless  wife  might 
have  starved.  Then,  just  after  their  third  child  was  born,  fever 
came,  swept  away  the  sickly  mother  and  the  two  eldest  chil¬ 
dren,  and  attacked  Sarti  himself,  who  rose  from  his  sick-bed 
with  enfeebled  brain  and  muscle,  and  a  tiny  baby  on  his  hands, 
scarcely  four  months  old.  He  lodged  over  a  fruit-shop  kept 
by  a  stout  virago,  loud  of  tongue  and  irate  in  temper,  but  who 
had  had  children  born  to  her,  and  so  had  taken  care  of  the 
tiny  yellow,  black-eyed  bambinetta ,  and  tended  Sarti  himself 
through  his  sickness.  Here  he  continued  to  live,  earning  a 
meagre  subsistence  for  himself  and  his  little  one  by  the  work 
of  copying  music,  put  into  his  hands  chiefly  by  Maestro 
Albani.  He  seemed  to  exist  for  nothing  but  the  child :  he 
tended  it,  he  dandled  it,  he  chatted  to  it,  living  with  it  alone 
in  his  one  room  above  the  fruit-shop,  only  asking  his  landlady 
to  take  care  of  the  marmoset  during  his  short  absences  in 
fetching  and  carrying  home  work.  Customers  frequenting 
that  fruit-shop  might  often  see  the  tiny  Caterina  seated  on  the 
floor  with  her  legs  in  a  heap  of  pease,  which  it  was  her  delight 
to  kick  about ;  or  perhaps  deposited,  like  a  kitten,  in  a  large 
basket  out  of  harm’s  way. 

Sometimes,  however,  Sarti  left  his  little  one  with  another 
kind  of  protectress.  He  was  very  regular  in  his  devotions, 


118 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


which  he  paid  thrice  a-week  in  the  great  cathedral,  carrying 
Caterina  with  him.  Here,  when  the  high  morning  sun  was 
warming  the  myriad  glittering  pinnacles  without,  and  strug¬ 
gling  against  the  massive  gloom  within,  the  shadow  of  a  man 
with  a  child  on  his  arm  might  be  seen  flitting  across  the  more 
stationary  shadows  of  pillar  and  mullion,  and  making  its  way 
towards  a  little  tinsel  Madonna  hanging  in  a  retired  spot  near 
the  choir.  Amid  all  the  sublimities  of  the  mighty  cathedral, 
poor  Sarti  had  fixed  on  this  tinsel  Madonna  as  the  symbol  of 
divine  mercy  and  protection,  — just  as  a  child,  in  the  presence 
of  a  great  landscape,  sees  none  of  the  glories  of  wood  and  sky, 
but  sets  its  heart  on  a  floating  feather  or  insect  that  happens 
to  be  on  a  level  with  its  eye.  Here,  then,  Sarti  worshipped 
and  prayed,  setting  Caterina  on  the  floor  by  his  side ;  and  now 
and  then,  when  the  cathedral  lay  near  some  place  where  he 
had  to  call,  and  did  not  like  to  take  her,  he  would  leave  her 
there  in  front  of  the  tinsel  Madonna,  where  she  would  sit, 
perfectly  good,  amusing  herself  with  low  crowing  noises  and 
see-sawings  of  her  tiny  body.  And  when  Sarti  came  back,  he 
always  found  that  the  Blessed  Mother  had  taken  good  care  of 
Caterina. 

That  was  briefly  the  history  of  Sarti,  who  fulfilled  so  well 
the  orders  Lady  Cheverel  gave  him,  that  she  sent  him  away 
again  with  a  stock  of  new  work.  But  this  time,  week  after 
week  passed,  and  he  neither  reappeared  nor  sent  home  the 
music  intrusted  to  him.  Lady  Cheverel  began  to  be  anxious, 
and  was  thinking  of  sending  Warren  to  inquire  at  the  address 
Sarti  had  given  her,  when  one  day,  as  she  was  equipped  for 
driving  out,  the  valet  brought  in  a  small  piece  of  paper,  which, 
he  said,  had  been  left  for  her  ladyship  by  a  man  who  was  car¬ 
rying  fruit.  The  paper  contained  only  three  tremulous  lines, 
in  Italian :  — 

“  Will  the  Eccelentissima,  for  the  love  of  God,  have  pity  on 
a  dying  man,  and  come  to  him  ?  ” 

Lady  Cheverel  recognized  the  handwriting  as  Sarti’s  in  spite 
of  its  tremulousness,  and,  going  down  to  her  carriage,  ordered 
the  Milanese  coachman  to  drive  to  Strada  Quinquagesima, 
Numero  10.  The  coach  stopped  in  a  dirty  narrow  street 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


119 


opposite  La  Pazzini’s  fruit-sliop,  and  that  large  specimen  of 
womanhood  immediately  presented  herself  at  the  door,  to  the 
extreme  disgust  of  Mrs.  Sharp,  who  remarked  privately  to  Mr. 
Warren  that  La  Pazzini  was  a  “hijeous  porpis.”  The  fruit- 
woman,  however,  was  all  smiles  and  deep  curtsies  to  the  Ec- 
celentissima,  who,  not  very  well  understanding  her  Milanese 
dialect,  abbreviated  the  conversation  by  asking  to  be  shown 
at  once  to  Signor  Sarti.  La  Pazzini  preceded  her  up  the  dark 
narrow  stairs,  and  opened  a  door  through  which  she  begged 
her  ladyship  to  enter.  Directly  opposite  the  door  lay  Sarti, 
on  a  low  miserable  bed.  His  eyes  were  glazed,  and  no  move¬ 
ment  indicated  that  he  was  conscious  of  their  entrance. 

On  the  foot  of  the  bed  was  seated  a  tiny  child,  apparently 
not  three  years  old,  her  head  covered  by  a  linen  cap,  her  feet 
clothed  with  leather  boots,  above  which  her  little  yellow  legs 
showed  thin  and  naked.  A  frock,  made  of  what  had  once 
been  a  gay  flowered  silk,  was  her  only  other  garment.  Her 
large  dark  eyes  shone  from  out  her  queer  little  face,  like  two 
precious  stones  in  a  grotesque  image  carved  in  old  ivory.  She 
held  an  empty  medicine-bottle  in  her  hand,  and  was  amusing 
herself  with  putting  the  cork  in  and  drawing  it  out  again,  to 
hear  how  it  would  pop. 

La  Pazzini  went  up  to  the  bed  and  said,  “  Ecco  la  nobilis- 
sima  donna!”  but  directly  after  screamed  out,  “Holy  mother! 
he  is  dead  !  ” 

It  was  so.  The  entreaty  had  not  been  sent  in  time  for  Sarti 
to  carry  out  his  project  of  asking  the  great  English  lady 
to  take  care  of  his  Caterina.  That  was  the  thought  which 
haunted  his  feeble  brain  as  soon  as  he  began  to  fear  that  his 
illness  would  end  in  death.  She  had  wealth  —  she  was  kind 
—  she  would  surely  do  something  for  the  poor  orphan.  And 
so,  at  last,  he  sent  that  scrap  of  paper  which  won  the  fulfil¬ 
ment  of  his  prayer,  though  he  did  not  live  to  utter  it.  Lady 
Cheverel  gave  La  Pazzini  money  that  the  last  decencies  might 
be  paid  to  the  dead  man,  and  carried  away  Caterina,  meaning 
to  consult  Sir  Christopher  as  to  what  should  be  done  with  her. 
Even  Mrs.  Sharp  had  been  so  smitten  with  pity  by  the  scene 
she  had  witnessed  when  she  was  summoned  up-stairs  to  fetch 


120 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


Caterina,  as  to  shed  a  small  tear,  though  she  was  not  at  all 
subject  to  that  weakness ;  indeed,  she  abstained  from  it  oc 
principle,  because,  as  she  often  said,  it  was  known  to  be  the 
worst  thing  in  the  world  for  the  eyes. 

On  the  way  back  to  her  hotel,  Lady  Clieverel  turned  over 
various  projects  in  her  mind  regarding  Caterina,  but  at  last 
one  gained  the  preference  over  all  the  rest.  Why  should  they 
not  take  the  child  to  England,  and  bring  her  up  there  ?  They 
had  been  married  twelve  years,  yet  Clieverel  Manor  was 
cheered  by  no  children’s  voices,  and  the  old  house  would  be 
all  the  better  for  a  little  of  that  music.  Besides,  it  would  be 
a  Christian  work  to  train  this  little  Papist  into  a  good  Protes¬ 
tant,  and  graft  as  much  English  fruit  as  possible  on  the  Italian 
stem. 

Sir  Christopher  listened  to  this  plan  with  hearty  acquies¬ 
cence.  He  loved  children,  and  took  at  once  to  the  little 
black-eyed  monkey  —  his  name  for  Caterina  all  through  her 
short  life.  But  neither  he  nor  Lady  Clieverel  had  any  idea 
of  adopting  her  as  their  daughter,  and  giving  her  their  own 
rank  in  life.  They  were  much  too  English  and  aristocratic 
to  think  of  anything  so  romantic.  No !  the  child  would  be 
brought  up  at  Clieverel  Manor  as  a  protegee,  to  be  ultimately 
useful,  perhaps,  in  sorting  worsteds,  keeping  accounts,  reading 
aloud,  and  otherwise  supplying  the  place  of  spectacles  when 
her  ladyship’s  eyes  should  wax  dim. 

So  Mrs.  Sharp  had  to  procure  new  clothes,  to  replace  the 
linen  cap,  flowered  frock,  and  leathern  boots ;  and  now,  strange 
to  say,  little  Caterina,  who  had  suffered  many  unconscious 
evils  in  her  existence  of  thirty  moons,  first  began  to  know 
conscious  troubles.  “  Ignorance,”  says  Ajax,  “  is  a  painless 
evil ;  ”  so,  I  should  think,  is  dirt,  considering  the  merry  faces 
that  go  along  with  it.  At  any  rate,  cleanliness  is  sometimes 
a  painful  good,  as  any  one  can  vouch  who  has  had  his  face 
washed  the  wrong  way,  by  a  pitiless  hand  with  a  gold  ring  on 
the  third  finger.  If  you,  reader,  have  not  known  that  ini¬ 
tiatory  anguish,  it  is  idle  to  expect  that  you  will  form  any 
approximate  conception  of  what  Caterina  endured  under  Mrs. 
Sharp’s  new  dispensation  of  soap-and-water.  Happily,  this 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


121 

purgatory  came  presently  to  be  associated  in  her  tiny  brain 
with  a  passage  straightway  to  a  seat  of  bliss  —  the  sofa  in 
Lady  Cheverel’s  sitting-room,  where  there  were  toys  to  be 
broken,  a  ride  was  to  be  had  on  Sir  Christopher’s  knee,  and 
a  spaniel  of  resigned  temper  was  prepared  to  undergo  small 
tortures  without  flinching. 


CHAPTER  IY. 

In  three  months  from  the  time  of  Caterina’s  adoption — . 
namely,  in  the  late  autumn  of  1773  —  the  chimneys  of  Cheve- 
rel  Manor  were  sending  up  unwonted  smoke,  and  the  servants 
were  awaiting  in  excitement  the  return  of  their  master  and 
mistress  after  a  two  years’  absence.  Great  was  the  astonish¬ 
ment  of  Mrs.  Bellamy,  the  housekeeper,  when  Mr.  Warren 
lifted  a  little  black-eyed  child  out  of  the  carriage,  and  great 
was  Mrs.  Sharp’s  sense  of  superior  information  and  experi¬ 
ence,  as  she  detailed  Caterina’s  history,  interspersed  with 
copious  comments,  to  the  rest  of  the  upper  servants  that 
evening,  as  they  were  taking  a  comfortable  glass  of  grog 
together  in  the  housekeeper’s  room. 

A  pleasant  room  it  was  as  any  party  need  desire  to  muster 
in  on  a  cold  November  evening.  The  fireplace  alone  was  a 
picture  :  a  wide  and  deep  recess  with  a  low  brick  altar  in  the 
middle,  where  great  logs  of  dry  wood  sent  myriad  sparks  up 
the  dark  chimney-throat ;  and  over  the  front  of  this  recess  a 
large  wooden  entablature  bearing  this  motto,  finely  carved  in 
old  English  letters,  “  jFear  @ofj  a nh  fjcmour  tjje  Ifttng.”  And 
beyond  the  party,  who  formed  a  half  moon  with  their  chairs 
and  well-furnished  table  round  this  bright  fireplace,  what  a 
space  of  chiaroscuro  for  the  imagination  to  revel  in  !  Stretch¬ 
ing  across  the  far  end  of  the  room,  what  an  oak  table,  high 
enough  surely  for  Homer’s  gods,  standing  on  four  massive 


122 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


legs,  bossed  and  bulging  like  sculptured  urns  !  and,  lining  the 
distant  wall,  what  vast  cupboards,  suggestive  of  inexhaustible 
apricot  jam  and  promiscuous  butler’s  perquisites  !  A  stray 
picture  or  two  had  found  their  way  down  there,  and  made 
agreeable  patches  of  dark  brown  on  the  buff-colored  walls. 
High  over  the  loud-resounding  double  door  hung  one  which, 
from  some  indications  of  a  face  looming  out  of  blackness, 
might,  by  a  great  synthetic  effort,  be  pronounced  a  Magdalen. 
Considerably  lower  down  hung  the  similitude  of  a  hat  and 
feathers,  with  portions  of  a  ruff,  stated  by  Mrs.  Bellamy  to 
represent  Sir  Francis  Bacon,  who  invented  gunpowder,  and, 
in  her  opinion,  “  might  ha’  been  better  emplyed.” 

But  this  evening  the  mind  is  but  slightly  arrested  by  the 
great  Verulam,  and  is  in  the  humor  to  think  a  dead  philosopher 
less  interesting  than  a  living  gardener,  who  sits  conspicuous  in 
the  half-circle  round  the  fireplace.  Mr.  Bates  is  habitually  a 
guest  in  the  housekeeper’s  room  of  an  evening,  preferring  the 
social  pleasures  there  —  the  feast  of  gossip  and  the  flow  of 
grog  —  to  a  bachelor’s  chair  in  his  charming  thatched  cottage 
on  a  little  island,  where  every  sound  is  remote  but  the  cawing 
of  rooks  and  the  screaming  of  wild  geese  :  poetic  sounds,  doubt¬ 
less,  but,  humanly  speaking,  not  convivial. 

Mr.  Bates  was  by  no  means  an  average  person,  to  be  passed 
without  special  notice.  He  was  a  sturdy  Yorkshireman,  ap¬ 
proaching  forty,  whose  face  Nature  seemed  to  have  colored 
when  she  was  in  a  hurry,  and  had  no  time  to  attend  to  nuances, 
for  every  inch  of  him  visible  above  his  neckcloth  was  of  one 
impartial  redness ;  so  that  when  he  was  at  some  distance  your 
imagination  was  at  liberty  to  place  his  lips  anywhere  between 
his  nose  and  chin.  Seen  closer,  his  lips  were  discerned  to  be 
of  a  peculiar  cut,  and  I  fancy  this  had  something  to  do  with 
the  peculiarity  of  his  dialect,  which,  as  we  shall  see,  was 
individual  rather  than  provincial.  Mr.  Bates  was  further  dis¬ 
tinguished  from  the  common  herd  by  a  perpetual  blinking  of 
the  eyes ;  and  this,  together  with  the  red-rose  tint  of  his  com¬ 
plexion,  and  a  way  he  had  of  hanging  his  head  forward,  and 
rolling  it  from  side  to  side  as  he  walked,  gave  him  the  air  of  a 
Bacchus  in  a  blue  apron,  who,  in  the  present  reduced  circum- 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


123 


stances  of  Olympus,  had  taken  to  the  management  of  his  own 
vines.  Yet,  as  gluttons  are  often  thin,  so  sober  men  are  often 
rubicund ;  and  Mr.  Bates  was  sober,  with  that  manly,  British, 
churchman-like  sobriety  which  can  carry  a  few  glasses  of  grog 
without  any  perceptible  clarification  of  ideas. 

“  Dang  my  boottons  !  ”  observed  Mr.  Bates,  who,  at  the 
conclusion  of  Mrs.  Sharp’s  narrative,  felt  himself  urged  to  his 
strongest  interjection,  “it’s  what  I  shouldn’t  ha’  looked  for 
from  Sir  Cristhifer  an’  my  ledy,  to  bring  a  furrin  child  into 
the  coonthry ;  an’  depend  on ’t,  whether  you  an’  me  lives  to 
see ’t  or  noo,  it  ’ll  coom  to  soom  harm.  The  first  sitiation 
iver  I  held  —  it  was  a  hold  hancient  habbey,  wi’  the  biggest 
orchard  o’  apples  an’  pears  you  ever  see — there  was  a  French 
valet,  an’  he  stool  silk  stoockins,  an’  shirts,  an’  rings,  an’  ivery- 
thin’  he  could  ley  his  hands  on,  an’  run  awey  at  last  wi’  th’ 
missis’s  jewl-box.  They  ’re  all  alaike,  them  furriners.  It 
roons  i’  th’  blood.” 

“  Well,”  said  Mrs.  Sharp,  with  the  air  of  a  person  who  held 
liberal  views,  but  knew  where  to  draw  the  line,  “I’m  not 
a-going  to  defend  the  furriners,  for  I’ve  as  good  reason  to 
know  what  they  are  as  most  folks,  an’  nobody  ’ll  ever  hear 
me  say  but  what  they  ’re  next  door  to  heathens,  and  the  hile 
they  eat  wi’  their  victuals  is  enough  to  turn  any  Christian’s 
stomach.  But  for  all  that  —  an’  for  all  as  the  trouble  in  re¬ 
spect  o’  washin’  and  managin’  has  fell  upo’  me  through  the 
journey  —  I  can’t  say  but  what  I  think  as  my  Lady  an’  Sir 
Cristifer’s  done  a  right  thing  by  a  hinnicent  child  as  does  n’t 
know  its  right  hand  from  its  left,  i’  bringing  it  where  it’ll 
learn  to  speak  summat  better  nor  gibberish,  and  be  brought  up 
i’  the  true  religion.  For  as  for  them  furrin  churches  as  Sir 
Cristifer  is  so  unaccountable  mad  after,  wi’  pictures  o’  men  an’ 
women  a-showing  themselves  just  for  all  the  world  as  God 
made  ’em,  I  think,  for  my  part,  as  it ’s  almost  a  sin  to  go  into 
’em.” 

“  You  ’re  likely  to  have  more  foreigners,  however,”  said 
Mr.  Warren,  who  liked  to  provoke  the  gardener,  “  for  Sir 
Christopher  has  engaged  some  Italian  workmen  to  help  in  the 
alterations  in  the  house.” 


124 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


“  Operations  !  ”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bellamy,  in  alarm.  “  What 
operations  ?  ” 

“  Why,”  answered  Mr.  Warren,  “  Sir  Chr'stopher,  as  I  un¬ 
derstand,  is  going  to  make  a  new  thing  of  the  old  Manor- 
house,  both  inside  and  out.  And  he ’s  got  portfolios  full  of 
plans  and  pictures  coming.  It  is  to  be  cased  with  stone,  in 
the  Gothic  style  —  pretty  near  like  the  churches,  you  know, 
as  far  as  I  can  make  out ;  and  the  ceilings  are  to  be  beyond 
anything  that ’s  been  seen  in  the  country.  Sir  Christopher  ’s 
been  giving  a  deal  of  study  to  it.” 

“  Dear  heart  alive !  ”  said  Mrs.  Bellamy,  “  we  shall  be 
pisoned  wi’  lime  an’  plaster,  an’  hev  the  house  full  o’  workmen 
colloguing  wi’  the  maids,  an’  makin’  no  end  o’  mischief.” 

“  That  ye  may  ley  your  life  on,  Mrs.  Bellamy,”  said  Mr. 
Bates.  “  Howiver,  I  ’ll  noot  denay  that  the  Goothic  stayle ’s 
prithy  anoof,  an’  it ’s  woonderful  how  near  them  stoon-carvers 
cuts  oot  the  shapes  o’  the  pine  apples,  an’  shamrucks,  an’ 
rooses.  I  dare  sey  Sir  Cristhifer  ’ll  meek  a  naice  thing  o’  the 
Manor,  an’  there  woon’t  be  many  gentlemen’s  houses  i’  the 
coonthry  as  ’ll  coom  up  to’t,  wi’  sich  a  garden  an’  pleasure- 
groons  an’  wall-fruit  as  King  George  maight  be  prood  on.” 

“  Well,  I  can’t  think  as  the  house  can  be  better  nor  it  is, 
Gothic  or  no  Gothic,”  said  Mrs.  Bellamy ;  “  an’  I ’ve  done  the 
picklin’  and  preservin’  in  it  fourteen  year  Michaelmas  was  a 
three  weeks.  But  what  does  my  lady  say  to ’t  ?  ” 

“  My  lady  knows  better  than  cross  Sir  Cristifer  in  what  he ’s 
set  his  mind  on,”  said  Mr.  Bellamy,  who  objected  to  the  criti¬ 
cal  tone  of  the  conversation.  “  Sir  Cristifer  ’ll  hev  his  own 
way,  that  you  may  tek  your  oath.  An’  i’  the  right  on ’t  too. 
He ’s  a  gentleman  born,  an ’s  got  the  money.  But  come,  Mes- 
ter  Bates,  fill  your  glass,  an’  we  ’ll  drink  health  an’  happiness 
to  his  honor  an’  my  lady,  and  then  you  shall  give  us  a  song. 
Sir  Cristifer  does  n’t  come  hum  from  Italy  ivery  night.” 

This  demonstrable  position  was  accepted  without  hesitation 
as  ground  for  a  toast ;  but  Mr.  Bates,  apparently  thinking 
that  his  song  was  not  an  equally  reasonable  sequence,  ignored 
the  second  part  of  Mr.  Bellamy’s  proposal.  So  Mrs.  Sharp, 
who  had  been  heard  to  say  that  she  had  no  thoughts  at  all  of 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


121 

many  in  g  Mr.  Bates,  though  he  was  “a  sensable  fresh-colored 
man  as  many  a  woman  ’ud  snap  at  for  a  husband,”  enforced 
Mr.  Bellamy’s  appeal. 

“ Come,  Mr.  Bates,  let  us  hear  ‘ Roy’s  Wife.’  I’d  rether 
hear  a  good  old  song  like  that,  nor  all  the  fine  Italian 
toodlin.” 

Mr.  Bates,  urged  thus  flatteringly,  stuck  his  thumbs  into  the 
armholes  of  his  waistcoat,  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair 
with  his  head  in  that  position  in  which  he  could  look  directly 
towards  the  zenith,  and  struck  up  a  remarkably  staccato  ren- 
dering  of  “Roy’s  Wife  of  Aldivallocli.”  This  melody  may 
certainly  be  taxed  with  excessive  iteration,  but  that  was  pre¬ 
cisely  its  highest  recommendation  to  the  present  audience,  who 
found  it  all  the  easier  to  swell  the  chorus.  Nor  did  it  at  all 
diminish  their  pleasure  that  the  only  particular  concerning 
“Roy’s  Wife,”  which  Mr.  Bates’s  enunciation  allowed  them  to 
gather,  was  that  she  “  chated  ”  him,  —  whether  in  the  matter 
of  garden  stuif  or  of  some  other  commodity,  or  why  her  name 
should,  in  consequence,  be  repeatedly  reiterated  with  exulta¬ 
tion,  remaining  an  agreeable  mystery. 

Mr.  Bates’s  song  formed  the  climax  of  the  evening’s  good-* 
fellowship,  and  the  party  soon  after  dispersed  —  Mrs.  Bellamy 
perhaps  to  dream  of  quicklime  flying  among  her  preserving- 
pans,  or  of  love-sick  housemaids  reckless  of  unswept  corners 
—  and  Mrs.  Sharp  to  sink  into  pleasant  visions  of  indepen¬ 
dent  housekeeping  in  Mr.  Bates’s  cottage,  with  no  bells  to 
answer,  and  with  fruit  and  vegetables  ad  libitum. 

Caterina  soon  conquered  all  prejudices  against  her  foreign 
blood ;  for  what  prejudices  will  hold  out  against  helplessness 
and  broken  prattle  ?  She  became  the  pet  of  the  household, 
thrusting  Sir  Christopher’s  favorite  bloodhound  of  that  day, 
Mrs.  Bellamy’s  two  canaries,  and  Mr.  Bates’s  largest  Dorking 
hen,  into  a  merely  secondary  position.  The  consequence  was, 
that  in  the  space  of  a  summer’s  day  she  went  through  a  great 
cycle  of  experiences,  commencing  with  the  somewhat  acidu¬ 
lated  good-will  of  Mrs.  Sharp’s  nursery  discipline.  Then 
came  the  grave  luxury  of  her  ladyship’s  sitting-room,  and, 
perhaps,  the  dignity  of  a  ride  on  Sir  Christopher’s  knee,  some* 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


152G 


times  followed  by  a  visit  with  him  to  the  stables,  where  Cat 
erina  soon  learned  to  hear  without  crying  the  baying  of  the 
chained  bloodhounds,  and  to  say,  with  ostentatious  bravery, 
clinging  to  Sir  Christopher’s  leg  all  the  while,  “Dey  not  hurt 
Tina.”  Then  Mrs.  Bellamy  would  perhaps  be  going  out  to 
gather  the  rose-leaves  and  lavender,  and  Tina  was  made  proud 
and  happy  by  being  allowed  to  carry  a  handful  in  her  pinafore  ; 
happier  still,  when  they  were  spread  out  on  sheets  to  dry,  so 
that  she  could  sit  down  like  a  frog  among  them,  and  have 
them  poured  over  her  in  fragrant  showers.  Another  frequent 
pleasure  was  to  take  a  journey  with  Mr.  Bates  through  the 
kitchen-gardens  and  the  hot-houses,  where  the  rich  bunches  of 
green  and  purple  grapes  hung  from  the  roof,  far  out  of  reach 
of  the  tiny  yellow  hand  that  could  not  help  stretching  itself 
out  towards  them ;  though  the  hand  was  sure  at  last  to  be 
satisfied  with  some  delicate-flavored  fruit  or  sweet-scented 
flower.  Indeed,  in  the  long  monotonous  leisure  of  that  great 
country-house,  you  may  be  sure  there  was  always  some  one 
who  had  nothing  better  to  do  than  to  play  with  Tina.  So 
that  the  little  southern  bird  had  its  northern  nest  lined  with 
tenderness,  and  caresses,  and  pretty  things.  A  loving  sensi¬ 
tive  nature  was  too  likely,  under  such  nurture,  to  have  its 
susceptibility  heightened  into  unfitness  for  an  encounter  with 
any  harder  experience  ;  all  the  more,  because  there  were  gleams 
of  fierce  resistance  to  any  discipline  that  had  a  harsh  or  unlov¬ 
ing  aspect.  For  the  only  thing  in  which  Caterina  showed  any 
precocity  was  a  certain  ingenuity  in  vindictiveness.  When 
she  was  five  years  old  she  had  revenged  herself  for  an  unpleas¬ 
ant  prohibition  by  pouring  the  ink  into  Mrs.  Sharp’s  work- 
basket  ;  and  once,  when  Lad}7  Cheverel  took  her  doll  from  her, 
because  she  was  affectionately  licking  the  paint  off  its  face, 
the  little  minx  straightway  climbed  on  a  chair  and  threw  down 
a  flower-vase  that  stood  on  a  bracket.  This  was  almost  the 
only  instance  in  which  her  anger  overcame  her  awe  of  Lady 
Cheverel,  who  had  the  ascendancy  always  belonging  to  kind¬ 
ness  that  never  melts  into  caresses,  and  is  severely  but  uni¬ 
formly  beneficent. 

By -and  by  the  happy  monotony  of  Cheverel  Manor  was 


MR.  GrILFIJ/S  LOVE-STORY. 


127 


broken  in  upon  iD  the  way  Mr.  Warren  had  announced.  The 
roads  through  the  park  were  cut  up  by  wagons  carrying  loads 
of  stone  from  a  neighboring  quarry,  the  green  courtyard  be¬ 
came  dusty  with  lime,  and  the  peaceful  house  rang  with  the 
sound  of  tools.  For  the  next  ten  years  Sir  Christopher  was 
occupied  with  the  architectural  metamorphosis  of  his  old 
family  mansion  ;  thus  anticipating,  through  the  prompting  of 
his  individual  taste,  that  general  reaction  from  the  insipid 
imitation  of  the  Palladian  style,  towards  a  restoration  of  the 
Gothic,  which  marked  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
This  was  the  object  he  had  set  his  heart  on,  with  a  singleness 
of  determination  which  was  regarded  with  not  a  little  con¬ 
tempt  by  his  fox-hunting  neighbors,  who  wondered  greatly 
that  a  man  with  some  of  the  best  blood  in  England  in  his 
veins,  should  be  mean  enough  to  economize  in  his  cellar,  and 
reduce  his  stud  to  two  old  coach-horses  and  a  hack,  for  the 
sake  of  riding  a  hobby,  and  playing  the  architect.  Their 
wives  did  not  see  so  much  to  blame  in  the  matter  of  the 
cellar  and  stables,  but  they  were  eloquent  in  pity  for  poor 
Lady  Cheverel,  who  had  to  live  in  no  more  than  three  rooms 
at  once,  and  who  must  be  distracted  with  noises,  and  have 
her  constitution  undermined  by  unhealthy  smells.  It  was  as 
bad  as  having  a  husband  with  an  asthma.  Why  did  not  Sir 
Christopher  take  a  house  for  her  at  Bath,  or,  at  least,  if  he 
must  spend  his  time  in  overlooking  workmen,  somewhere  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  Manor  ?  This  pity  was  quite  gratui¬ 
tous,  as  the  most  plentiful  pity  always  is ;  for  though  Lady 
Cheverel  did  not  share  her  husband’s  architectural  enthusiasm, 
she  had  too  rigorous  a  view  of  a  wife’s  duties,  and  too  pro¬ 
found  a  deference  for  Sir  Christopher,  to  regard  submission  as 
a  grievance.  As  for  Sir  Christopher,  he  was  perfectly  in¬ 
different  to  criticism.  “  An  obstinate,  crotchety  man,”  said 
his  neighbors.  But  I,  who  have  seen  Cheverel  Manor,  as  he 
bequeathed  it  to  his  heirs,  rather  attribute  that  unswerving 
architectural  purpose  of  his,  conceived  and  carried  out  through 
long  years  of  systematic  personal  exertion,  to  something  of 
the  fervor  of  genius,  as  well  as  inflexibility  of  will ;  and  in  . 
walking  through  those  rooms,  with  their  splendid  ceilings  and 


i'2  8 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


their  meagre  furniture,  which  tell  how  all  the  spare  money 
had  been  absorbed  before  personal  comfort  was  thought  of,  I 
have  felt  that  there  dwelt  in  this  old  English  baronet  some  of 
that  sublime  spirit  which  distinguishes  art  from  luxury,  and 
worships  beauty  apart  from  self-indulgence. 

While  Cheverel  Manor  was  growing  from  ugliness  into 
beauty,  Caterina  too  was  growing  from  a  little  yellow  bantling 
into  a  whiter  maiden,  with  no  positive  beauty  indeed,  but 
with  a  certain  light  airy  grace,  which,  with  her  large  appeal¬ 
ing  dark  eyes,  and  a  voice  that,  in  its  low-toned  tenderness, 
recalled  the  love-notes  of  the  stock-dove,  gave  her  a  more  than 
usual  charm.  Unlike  the  building,  however,  Caterina’ s  devel¬ 
opment  was  the  result  of  no  systematic  or  careful  appliances. 
She  grew  up  very  much  like  the  primroses,  which  the  gar¬ 
dener  is  not  sorry  to  see  within  his  enclosure,  but  takes  no 
pains  to  cultivate.  Lady  Cheverel  taught  her  to  read  and 
write,  and  say  her  catechism ;  Mr.  Warren,  being  a  good  ac¬ 
countant,  gave  her  lessons  in  arithmetic,  by  her  ladyship’s 
desire ;  and  Mrs.  Sharp  initiated  her  in  all  the  mysteries  of 
the  needle.  But,  for  a  long  time,  there  was  no  thought  of  giv¬ 
ing  her  any  more  elaborate  education.  It  is  very  likely  that  to 
her  dying  day  Caterina  thought  the  earth  stood  still,  and  that 
the  sun  and  stars  moved  round  it ;  but  so,  for  the  matter  of 
that,  did  Helen,  and  Dido,  and  Desdemona,  and  Juliet ;  whence 
I  hope  you  will  not  think  my  Caterina  less  worthy  to  be  a 
heroine  on  that  account.  The  truth  is,  that,  with  one  excep¬ 
tion,  her  only  talent  lay  in  loving ;  and  there,  it  is  probable, 
the  most  astronomical  of  women  could  not  have  surpassed  her. 
Orphan  and  protegee  though  she  was,  this  supreme  talent  of 
hers  found  plenty  of  exercise  at  Cheverel  Manor,  and  Caterina 
had  more  people  to  love  than  many  a  small  lady  and  gentle¬ 
man  affluent  in  silver  mugs  and  blood  relations.  I  think  the 
first  place  in  her  childish  heart  was  given  to  Sir  Christopher, 
for  little  girls  are  apt  to  attach  themselves  to  the  finest-looking 
gentleman  at  hand,  especially  as  he  seldom  has  anything  to 
do  with  discipline.  Next  to  the  Baronet  came  Dorcas,  the 
merry  rosy-cheeked  damsel  who  was  Mrs.  Sharp’s  lieutenant 
in  the  nursery,  and  thus  played  the  part  of  the  raisins  in  a 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


123 


dose  of  senna.  It  was  a  black  day  for  Caterina  when  Dorcas 
married  the  coachman,  and  went,  with  a  great  sense  of  eleva¬ 
tion  in  the  world,  to  preside  over  a  “  public  ”  in  the  noisy 
town  of  Sloppeter.  A  little  china-box,  bearing  the  motto 
“  Though  lost  to  sight,  to  memory  dear,”  which  Dorcas  sent 
her  as  a  remembrance,  was  among  Caterina’s  treasures  ten 
years  after. 

The  one  other  exceptional  talent,  you  already  guess,  was 
music.  When  the  fact  that  Caterina  had  a  remarkable  ear 
for  music,  and  a  still  more  remarkable  voice,  attracted  Lady 
Cheverel’s  notice,  the  discovery  wras  very  welcome  both  to  her 
and  Sir  Christopher.  Her  musical  education  became  at  once 
an  object  of  interest.  Lady  Cheverel  devoted  much  time  to 
it ;  and  the  rapidity  of  Tina’s  progress  surpassing  all  hopes, 
an  Italian  singing-master  was  engaged,  for  several  years,  to 
spend  some  months  together  at  Cheverel  Manor.  This  un¬ 
expected  gift  made  a  great  alteration  in  Caterina’s  position. 
After  those  first  years  in  which  little  girls  are  petted  like 
puppies  and  kittens,  there  comes  a  time  when  it  seems  less 
obvious  what  they  can  be  good  for,  especially  when,  like 
Caterina,  they  give  no  particular  promise  of  cleverness  or 
beauty ;  and  it  is  not  surprising  that  in  that  uninteresting 
period  there  was  no  particular  plan  formed  as  to  her  future 
position.  She  could  always  help  Mrs.  Sharp,  supposing  she 
were  fit  for  nothing  else,  as  she  grew  up ;  but  now,  this  rare 
gift  of  song  endeared  her  to  Lady  Cheverel,  who  loved  music 
above  all  things,  and  it  associated  her  at  once  with  the  pleas¬ 
ures  of  the  drawing-room.  Insensibly  she  came  to  be  re¬ 
garded  as  one  of  the  family,  and  the  servants  began  to  under¬ 
stand  that  Miss  Sarti  was  to  be  a  lady  after  all. 

“  And  the  raight  on ’t  too,”  said  Mr.  Bates,  u  for  she  has  n’t 
the  cut  of  a  gell  as  must  work  for  her  bread ;  she 's  as  nesh 
an’  dilicate  as  a  paich  blossom  —  welly  laike  a  linnet,  wi’  on’y 
joost  body  anoof  to  hold  her  voice.” 

But  long  before  Tina  had  reached  this  stage  of  her  history, 
a  new  era  had  begun  for  her,  in  the  arrival  of  a  younger  com¬ 
panion  than  any  she  had  hitherto  known.  When  she  was 
no  more  than  seven,  a  ward  of  Sir  Christopher’s  a  lad  of 

9 


VOL.  IV. 


130 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


fifteen,  Maynard  Gilfil  by  name  —  began  to  spend  bis  vacations 
at  Cheverel  Manor,  and  found  there  no  playfellow  so  much  to 
his  mind  as  Caterina.  Maynard  was  an  affectionate  lad,  who 
retained  a  propensity  to  white  rabbits,  pet  squirrels,  and 
guinea-pigs,  perhaps  a  little  beyond  the  age  at  which  young 
gentlemen  usually  look  down  on  such  pleasures  as  puerile. 
He  was  also  much  given  to  fishing,  and  to  carpentry,  considered 
as  a  fine  art,  without  any  base  view  to  utility.  And  in  all 
these  pleasures  it  was  his  delight  to  have  Caterina  as  his 
companion,  to  call  her  little  pet  names,  answer  her  wondering 
questions,  and  have  her  toddling  after  him  as  you  may  have 
seen  a  Blenheim  spaniel  trotting  after  a  large  setter.  When¬ 
ever  Maynard  went  back  to  school,  there  was  a  little  scene  of 
parting. 

“  You  won’t  forget  me,  Tina,  before  I  come  back  again  ?  I 
shall  leave  you  all  the  whip-cord  we ’ve  made  ;  and  don’t  you 
let  Guinea  die.  Come,  give  me  a  kiss,  and  promise  not  to 
forget  me.” 

As  the  years  wore  on,  and  Maynard  passed  from  school  to 
college,  and  from  a  slim  lad  to  a  stalwart  young  man,  their 
companionship  in  the  vacations  necessarily  took  a  different 
form,  but  it  retained  a  brotherly  and  sisterly  familiarity. 
With  Maynard  the  boyish  affection  had  insensibly  grown  into 
ardent  love.  Among  all  the  many  kinds  of  first  love,  that 
which  begins  in  childish  companionship  is  the  strongest  and 
most  enduring :  when  passion  comes  to  unite  its  force  to  long 
affection,  love  is  at  its  spring-tide.  And  Maynard  Gilfil’s  love 
was  of  a  kind  to  make  him  prefer  being  tormented  by  Caterina 
to  any  pleasure,  apart  from  her,  which  the  most  benevolent 
magician  could  have  devised  for  him.  It  is  the  way  with 
those  tall  large-limbed  men,  from  Samson  downwards.  As  for 
Tina,  the  little  minx  was  perfectly  well  aware  that  Maynard 
was  her  slave ;  he  was  the  one  person  in  the  world  whom  she 
did  as  she  pleased  with ;  and  I  need  not  tell  you  that  this  was 
a  symptom  of  her  being  perfectly  heart-whole  so  far  as  he 
was  concerned  :  for  a  passionate  woman’s  love  is  always  over¬ 
shadowed  by  fear. 

Maynard  Gilfil  did  not  deceive  himself  in  his  interpretation 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


131 


oi  Caterina’s  feelings,  but  he  nursed  the  hope  that  some  time 
or  other  she  would  at  least  care  enough  for  him  to  accept  his 
love.  So  he  waited  patiently  for  the  day  when  he  might  ven¬ 
ture  to  say,  “  Caterina,  I  love  you !  ”  You  see,  he  would  have 
been  content  with  very  little,  being  one  of  those  men  who 
pass  through  life  without  making  the  least  clamor  about  them¬ 
selves  ;  thinking  neither  the  cut  of  his  coat,  nor  the  flavor  of 
his  soup,  nor  the  precise  depth  of  a  servant’s  bow,  at  all  momen¬ 
tous.  He  thought  —  foolishly  enough,  as  lovers  will  think  — 
that  it  was  a  good  augury  for  him  when  he  came  to  be  domesti¬ 
cated  at  Cheverel  Manor  in  the  quality  of  chaplain  there,  and 
curate  of  a  neighboring  parish  ;  judging  falsely,  from  his  own 
case,  that  habit  and  affection  were  the  likeliest  avenues  to  love. 
Sir  Christopher  satisfied  several  feelings  in  installing  Maynard 
as  chaplain  in  his  house.  He  liked  the  old-fashioned  dignity 
of  that  domestic  appendage ;  he  liked  his  ward’s  companion¬ 
ship;  and,  as  Maynard  had  some  private  fortune,  he  might 
take  life  easily  in  that  agreeable  home,  keeping  his  hunter, 
and  observing  a  mild  regimen  of  clerical  duty,  until  the  Cum- 
bermoor  living  should  fall  in,  when  he  might  be  settled  for 
life  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Manor.  “  With  Caterina  for  a 
wife,  too,”  Sir  Christopher  soon  began  to  think ;  for  though 
the  good  Baronet  was  not  at  all  quick  to  suspect  what  was  un¬ 
pleasant  and  opposed  to  his  views  of  fitness,  he  was  quick  to 
see  what  would  dovetail  with  his  own  plans  ;  and  he  had  first 
guessed,  and  then  ascertained,  by  direct  inquiry,  the  state  of 
Maynard’s  feelings.  He  at  once  leaped  to  the  conclusion  that 
Caterina  was  of  the  same  mind,  or  at  least  would  be,  when 
she  was  old  enough.  But  these  were  too  early  days  for  any¬ 
thing  definite  to  be  said  or  done. 

Meanwhile,  new  circumstances  were  arising,  which,  though 
they  made  no  change  in  Sir  Christopher’s  plans  and  prospects, 
converted  Mr.  Gilfil’s  hopes  into  anxieties,  and  made  it  clear 
to  him  not  only  that  Caterina’s  heart  was  never  likely  to  be 
his,  but  that  it  was  given  entirely  to  another. 

Once  or  twice  in  Caterina’s  childhood,  there  had  been 
another  boy-visitor  at  the  Manor,  younger  than  Maynard 
Gilfil  —  a  beautiful  boy  with  brown  curls  and  splendid  clothes 


132 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


on  whom  Caterina  had  looked  with  shy  admiration.  This  was 
Anthony  Wybrow,  the  son  of  Sir  Christopher’s  younger  sister, 
and  chosen  heir  of  Clieverel  Manor.  The  Baronet  had  sacri¬ 
ficed  a  large  sum,  and  even  straitened  the  resources  by  which 
he  was  to  carry  out  his  architectural  schemes,  for  the  sake  of 
removing  the  entail  from  his  estate,  and  making  this  boy  his 
heir  —  moved  to  the  step,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  by  an  implacable 
quarrel  with  his  elder  sister  ;  for  a  power  of  forgiveness  was 
not  among  Sir  Christopher’s  virtues.  At  length,  on  the  death 
of  Anthony’s  mother,  when  he  was  no  longer  a  curly-headed 
boy,  but  a  tall  young  man,  with  a  captain’s  commission,  Chev- 
erel  Manor  became  his  home  too,  whenever  he  was  absent  from 
his  regiment.  Caterina  was  then  a  little  woman,  between  six¬ 
teen  and  seventeen,  and  I  need  not  spend  many  words  in  ex¬ 
plaining  what  you  perceive  to  be  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world. 

There  was  little  company  kept  at  the  Manor,  and  Captain 
Wybrow  would  have  been  much  duller  if  Caterina  had  not 
been  there.  It  was  pleasant  to  pay  her  attentions  —  to  speak 
to  her  in  gentle  tones,  to  see  her  little  flutter  of  pleasure,  the 
blush  that  just  lit  up  her  pale  cheek,  and  the  momentary  timid 
glance  of  her  dark  eyes,  when  he  praised  her  singing,  leaning 
at  her  side  over  the  piano.  Pleasant,  too,  to  cut  out  that 
chaplain  with  his  large  calves  !  What  idle  man  can  withstand 
the  temptation  of  a  woman  to  fascinate,  and  another  man  to 
eclipse  ?  — especially  when  it  is  quite  clear  to  himself  that  he 
means  no  mischief,  and  shall  leave  everything  to  come  right 
again  by-and-by.  At  the  end  of  eighteen  months,  however, 
during  which  Captain  Wybrow  had  spent  much  of  his  time  at 
the  Manor,  he  found  that  matters  had  reached  a  point  which 
he  had  not  at  all  contemplated.  Gentle  tones  had  led  to  tender 
words,  and  tender  words  had  called  forth  a  response  of  looks 
which  made  it  impossible  not  to  carry  on  the  crescendo  of  love- 
making.  To  find  one’s  self  adored  by  a  little,  graceful,  dark¬ 
eyed,  sweet-singing  woman,  whom  no  one  need  despise,  is  an 
agreeable  sensation,  comparable  to  smoking  the  finest  Latakia, 
and  also  imposes  some  return  of  tenderness  as  a  duty. 

Perhaps  you  think  that  Captain  Wybrow,  who  knew  that  it 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


133 


would  be  ridiculous  to  dream  of  bis  marrying  Caterina,  must 
have  been  a  reckless  libertine  to  win  her  affections  in  this 
manner !  Not  at  all.  He  was  a  young  man  of  calm  passions, 
who  was  rarely  led  into  any  conduct  of  which  he  could  not 
give  a  plausible  account  to  himself  j  and  the  tiny  fragile 
Caterina  was  a  woman  who  touched  the  imagination  and  the 
affections  rather  than  the  senses.  He  really  felt  very  kindly 
towards  her,  and  would  very  likely  have  loved  her — -if  he 
had  been  able  to  love  any  one.  But  nature  had  not  endowed 
him  with  that  capability.  She  had  given  him  an  admirable 
figure,  the  whitest  of  hands,  the  most  delicate  of  nostrils,  and 
a  large  amount  of  serene  self-satisfaction ;  but,  as  if  to  save 
such  a  delicate  piece  of  work  from  any  risk  of  being  shattered, 
she  had  guarded  him  from  the  liability  to  a  strong  emotion. 
There  was  no  list  of  youthful  misdemeanors  on  record  against 
him,  and  Sir  Christopher  and  Lady  Cheverel  thought  him  the 
best  of  nephews,  the  most  satisfactory  of  heirs,  full  of  grateful 
deference  to  themselves,  and,  above  all  things,  guided  by  a 
sense  of  duty.  Captain  Wybrow  always  did  the  thing  easiest 
and  most  agreeable  to  him  from  a  sense  of  duty :  he  dressed 
expensively,  because  it  was  a  duty  he  owed  to  his  position ; 
from  a  sense  of  duty  he  adapted  himself  to  Sir  Christopher’s 
inflexible  will,  which  it  would  have  been  troublesome  as  well 
as  useless  to  resist ;  and,  being  of  a  delicate  constitution,  he 
took  care  of  his  health  from  a  sense  of  duty.  His  health  was 
the  only  point  on  which  he  gave  anxiety  to  his  friends ;  and 
it  was  owing  to  this  that  Sir  Christopher  wished  to  see  his 
nephew  early  married,  the  more  so  as  a  match  after  the  Baro¬ 
net’s  own  heart  appeared  immediately  attainable.  Anthony 
had  seen  and  admired  Miss  Assher,  the  only  child  of  a  lady 
who  had  been  Sir  Christopher’s  earliest  love,  but  who,  as  things 
will  happen  in  this  world,  had  married  another  baronet  instead 
of  him.  Miss  Assher’s  father  was  now  dead,  and  she  was  in 
possession  of  a  pretty  estate.  If,  as  was  probable,  she  should 
prove  susceptible  to  the  merits  of  Anthony’s  person  and  char¬ 
acter,  nothing  could  make  Sir  Christopher  so  happy  as  to 
see  a  marriage  which  might  be  expected  to  secure  the  inheri¬ 
tance  of  Cheverel  Manor  from  getting  into  the  wrong  hands. 


134 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


Anthony  had  already  been  kindly  received  by  Lady  Assher 
as  the  nephew  of  her  early  friend  ;  why  should  he  not  go  to 
Bath,  where  she  and  her  daughter  were  then  residing,  follow 
up  the  acquaintance,  and  win  a  handsome,  well-boi  .  and  suffi¬ 
ciently  wealthy  bride  ? 

Sir  Christopher’s  wishes  were  communicated  to  his  nephew, 
who  at  once  intimated  his  willingness  to  comply  with  them  — 
from  a  sense  of  duty.  Caterina  was  tenderly  informed  by  her 
lover  of  the  sacrifice  demanded  from  them  both;  and  three 
days  afterwards  occurred  the  parting  scene  you  have  witnessed 
in  the  gallery,  on  the  eve  of  Captain  Wy brow’s  departure  for 
Bath. 


♦ 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  inexorable  ticking  of  the  clock  is  like  the  throb  of  pain 
to  sensations  made  keen  by  a  sickening  fear.  And  so  it  is 
with  the  great  clockwork  of  nature.  Daisies  and  buttercups 
give  way  to  the  brown  waving  grasses,  tinged  with  the  warm 
red  sorrel ;  the  waving  grasses  are  swept  away,  and  the  mead¬ 
ows  lie  like  emeralds  set  in  the  bushy  hedgerows ;  the  tawny- 
tipped  corn  begins  to  bow  with  the  weight  of  the  full  ear ;  the 
reapers  are  bending  amongst  it,  and  it  soon  stands  in  sheaves; 
then,  presently,  the  patches  of  yellow  stubble  lie  side  by  side 
?ith  streaks  of  dark-red  earth,  which  the  plough  is  turning  up 
m  preparation  for  the  new-thrashed  seed.  And  this  passage 
from  beauty  to  beauty,  which  to  the  happy  is  like  the  flow  of 
a  melody,  measures  for  many  a  human  hea.  j  the  approach  of 
foreseen  anguish  — •  seems  hurrying  on  the  moment  when  the 
shadow  of  dread  will  be  followed  up  by  the  reality  of  despair. 

How  cruelly  hasty  that  summer  of  1788  seemed  to  Caterina! 
Surely  the  roses  vanished  earlier  and  the  berries  on  the  moun¬ 
tain-ash  were  more  impatient  to  redden,  anil  bring  on  the 
autumn,  when  she  would  bn  *  ?.oe  to  face  with  her  misery,  and 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY.  13£ 

witness  Anthony  giving  all  his  gentle  tones,  tender  words,  and 
soft  looks  to  another. 

Before  the  end  of  July,  Captain  Wybrow  had  written  word 
that  Lady  Assher  and  her  daughter  were  about  to  fly  from  the 
heat  and  gayety  of  Bath  to  the  shady  quiet  of  their  place  at 
Farleigh,  and  that  he  was  invited  to  join  the  party  there. 
His  letters  implied  that  he  was  on  an  excellent  footing  with 
both  the  .adies,  and  gave  no  hint  of  a  rival ;  so  that  Sir  Chris¬ 
topher  was  more  than  usually  bright  and  cheerful  after  read¬ 
ing  them.  At  length,  towards  the  close  of  August,  came  the 
announcement  that  Captain  Wybrow  was  an  accepted  lover, 
and  after  much  complimentary  and  congratulatory  correspon¬ 
dence  between  the  two  families,  it  was  understood  that  in  Sep¬ 
tember  Lady  Assher  and  her  daughter  would  pay  a  visit  to 
Cheverel  Manor,  when  Beatrice  would  make  the  acquaintance 
of  her  future  relatives,  and  all  needful  arrangements  could  be 
discussed.  Captain  Wybrow  would  remain  at  Farleigh  till 
then,  and  accompany  the  ladies  on  their  journey. 

In  the  interval,  every  one  at  Cheverel  Manor  had  something 
to  do  by  way  of  preparing  for  the  visitors.  Sir  Christopher 
was  occupied  in  consultations  with  his  steward  and  lawyer, 
and  in  giving  orders  to  every  one  else,  especially  in  spurring 
on  Francesco  to  finish  the  saloon.  Mr.  Gfilfil  had  the  respon¬ 
sibility  of  procuring  a  lady’s  horse,  Miss  Assher  being  a  great 
rider.  Lady  Cheverel  had  unwonted  calls  to  make  and  invita¬ 
tions  to  deliver.  Mr.  Bates’s  turf,  and  gravel,  and  flower-beds 
were  always  at  such  a  point  of  neatness  and  finish  that  noth¬ 
ing  extraordinary  could  be  done  in  the  garden,  except  a  little 
extraordinary  scolding  of  the  under-gardener,  and  this  addition 
Mr.  Bates  did  not  neglect. 

Happily  for  Caterina,  she  too  had  her  task,  to  fill  up  the 
long  dreary  daytime :  it  was  to  finish  a  chair-cushion  which 
would  complete  the  set  of  embroidered  covers  for  the  drawing¬ 
room,  Lady  Cheverel’s  year  long  work,  and  the  only  noteworthy 
bit  of  furniture  in  the  Manor.  Over  this  embroidery  she  sat 
with  cold  lips  and  a  palpitating  heart,  thankful  that  this  mis 
erable  sensation  throughout  the  daytime  seemed  to  counteract 
the  tendency  to  tears  which  returned  with  night  and  solitude 


136  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

She  was  most  frightened  when  Sir  Christopher  approached 
her.  The  Baronet’s  eye  was  brighter  and  his  step  more  elas¬ 
tic  than  ever,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  only  the  most  leaden 
or  churlish  souls  could  be  otherwise  than  brisk  and  exult¬ 
ing  in  a  world  where  everything  went  so  well.  Dear  old 
gentleman  !  he  had  gone  through  life  a  little  flushed  with  the 
power  of  his  will,  and  now  his  latest  plan  was  succeeding,  and 
Cheverel  Manor  would  be  inherited  by  a  grand-nephew,  whom 
he  might  even  yet  live  to  see  a  fine  young  fellow  with  at 
least  the  down  on  his  chin.  Why  not  ?  one  is  still  young  at 
sixty. 

Sir  Christopher  had  always  something  playful  to  say  to 
Caterina. 

“  Now,  little  monkey,  you  must  be  in  your  best  voice ;  you  ’re 
the  minstrel  of  the  Manor,  you  know,  and  be  sure  you  have  a 
pretty  gown  and  a  new  ribbon.  You  must  not  be  dressed  in 
russet,  though  you  are  a  singing-bird.”  Or  perhaps,  “  It  is 
your  turn  to  be  courted  next,  Tina.  But  don’t  you  learn  any 
naughty  proud  airs.  I  must  have  Maynard  let  off  easily.” 

Caterina’s  affection  for  the  old  Baronet  helped  her  to  sum¬ 
mon  up  a  smile  as  he  stroked  her  cheek  and  looked  at  her 
kindly,  but  that  was  the  moment  at  which  she  felt  it  most 
difficult  not  to  burst  out  crying.  Lady  Cheverel’s  conversa¬ 
tion  and  presence  were  less  trying ;  for  her  ladyship  felt  no 
more  than  calm  satisfaction  in  this  family  event ;  and  besides, 
she  was  further  sobered  by  a  little  jealousy  at  Sir  Christo¬ 
pher’s  anticipation  of  pleasure  in  seeing  Lady  Assher,  en¬ 
shrined  in  his  memory  as  a  mild-eyed  beauty  of  sixteen,  with 
whom  he  had  exchanged  locks  before  he  went  on  his  first 
travels.  Lady  Cheverel  would  have  died  rather  than  confess 
it,  but  she  could  n’t  help  hoping  that  he  would  be  disappointed 
in  Lady  Assher,  and  rather  ashamed  of  having  called  her  so 
charming. 

Mr.  Gilfil  watched  Caterina  through  these  days  with  mixed 
feelings.  Her  suffering  went  to  his  heart;  but,  even  for  her 
sake,  he  was  glad  that  a  love  which  could  never  come  to  good 
should  be  no  longer  fed  by  false  hopes ;  and  how  could  he 
help  saying  to  himself,  “  Perhaps,  after  a  while,  Caterina 


18,? 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 

will  be  tired  of  fretting  about  that  cold-hearted  puppy,  and 
then  —  ” 

At  length  the  much-expected  day  arrived,  and  the  brightest 
of  September  suns  was  lighting  up  the  yellowing  lime-trees,  as 
about  five  o’clock  Lady  Assher’s  carriage  drove  under  the  por¬ 
tico.  Caterina,  seated  at  work  in  her  own  room,  heard  the 
rolling  of  the  wheels,  followed  presently  by  the  opening  and 
shutting  of  doors,  and  the  sound  of  voices  in  the  corridors. 
Remembering  that  the  dinner-hour  was  six,  and  that  Lady 
Cheverel  had  desired  her  to  be  in  the  drawing-room  early,  she 
started  up  to  dress,  and  was  delighted  to  find  herself  feeling 
suddenly  brave  and  strong.  Curiosity  to  see  Miss  Assher  — 
the  thought  that  Anthony  was  in  the  house  —  the  wish  not  to 
look  unattractive,  were  feelings  that  brought  some  color  to  her 
lips,  and  made  it  easy  to  attend  to  her  toilet.  They  would  ask 
her  to  sing  this  evening,  and  she  would  sing  well.  Miss  Assher 
should  not  think  her  utterly  insignificant.  So  she  put  on  her 
gray  silk  gown  and  her  cherry-colored  ribbon  with  as  much 
care  as  if  she  had  been  herself  the  betrothed ;  not  forgetting 
the  pair  of  round  pearl  earrings  which  Sir  Christopher  had 
told  Lady  Cheverel  to  give  her,  because  Tina’s  little  ears  were 
so  pretty. 

Quick  as  she  had  been,  she  found  Sir  Christopher  and  Lady 
Cheverel  in  the  drawing-room  chatting  with  Mr.  Gilfil,  and 
telling  him  how  handsome  Miss  Assher  was,  but  how  entirely 
unlike  her  mother  —  apparently  resembling  her  father  only. 

“  Aha  !  ”  said  Sir  Christopher,  as  he  turned  to  look  at  Cater¬ 
ina,  “  what  do  you  think  of  this,  Maynard  ?  Did  you  ever  see 
Tina  look  so  pretty  before  ?  Why,  that  little  gray  gown  has 
been  made  out  of  a  bit  of  my  lady’s,  has  n’t  it  ?  It  does  n’t 
take  anything  much  larger  than  a  pocket-handkerchief  to  dress 
the  little  monkey.” 

Lady  Cheverel,  too,  serenely  radiant  in  the  assurance  a  sin¬ 
gle  glance  had  given  her  of  Lady  Assher’s  inferiority,  smiled 
approval,  and  Caterina  was  in  one  of  those  moods  of  self-pos¬ 
session  and  indifference  which  come  as  the  ebb-tide  between 
the  struggles  of  passion.  She  retired  to  the  piano,  and  busied 
berself  with  arranging  her  music,  not  at  all  insensible  to  the 


138 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


pleasure  of  being  looked  at  with  admiration  the  while,  and 
thinking  that,  the  next  time  the  door  opened,  Captain  Wybrow 
would  enter,  and  she  would  speak  to  him  quite  cheerfully. 
But  when  she  heard  him  come  in,  and  the  scent  of  roses  floated 
towards  her,  her  heart  gave  one  great  leap.  She  knew  nothing 
till  he  was  pressing  her  hand,  and  saying,  in  the  old  easy  way, 
“  Well,  Caterina,  how  do  you  do  ?  You  look  quite  blooming.” 

She  felt  her  cheeks  reddening  with  anger  that  he  could 
speak  and  look  with  such  perfect  nonchalance.  Ah !  he  was 
too  deeply  in  love  with  some  one  else  to  remember  anything 
he  had  felt  for  her.  But  the  next  moment  she  was  conscious 
of  her  folly  ;  —  ee  as  if  he  could  show  any  feeling  then !  ”  This 
conflict  of  emotions  stretched  into  a  long  interval  the  few  mo¬ 
ments  that  elapsed  before  the  door  opened  again,  and  her  own 
attention,  as  well  as  that  of  all  the  rest,  was  absorbed  by  the 
entrance  of  the  two  ladies. 

The  daughter  was  the  more  striking,  from  the  contrast  she  pre¬ 
sented  to  her  mother,  a  round-shouldered,  middle-sized  woman, 
who  had  once  had  the  transient  pink-and-white  beauty  of  a 
blonde,  with  ill-defined  features  and  early  embonpoint.  Miss 
Assher  was  tall,  and  gracefully  though  substantially  formed, 
carrying  herself  with  an  air  of  mingled  graciousness  and 
self-confidence ;  her  dark-brown  hair,  untouched  by  powder, 
hanging  in  bushy  curls  round  her  face,  and  falling  behind  in 
long  thick  ringlets  nearly  to  her  waist.  The  brilliant  carmine 
tint  of  her  well-rounded  cheeks,  and  the  finely  cut  outline  of 
her  straight  nose,  produced  an  impression  of  splendid  beauty, 
in  spite  of  common-place  brown  eyes,  a  narrow  forehead,  and 
thin  lips.  She  was  in  mourning,  and  the  dead  black  of  her 
crape  dress,  relieved  here  and  there  by  jet  ornaments,  gave  the 
fullest  effect  to  her  complexion,  and  to  the  rounded  whiteness 
of  her  arms,  bare  from  the  elbow.  The  first  coup  d'ocil  was 
dazzling,  and  as  she  stood  looking  down  with  a  gracious  smile 
on  Caterina,  whom  Lady  Cheverel  was  presenting  to  her,  the 
poor  little  thing  seemed  to  herself  to  feel,  for  the  first  time, 
all  the  folly  of  her  former  dream. 

“  We  are  enchanted  with  your  place,  Sir  Christopher,”  said 
Lady  Assher,  with  a  feeble  kind  of  pompousness,  which  she 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


139 


seemed  to  be  copying  from  some  one  else ;  “  I ’m  sure  your 
nephew  must  have  thought  Farleigh  wretchedly  out  of  order. 
Poor  Sir  John  was  so  very  careless  about  keeping  up  the  house 
and  grounds.  I  often  talked  to  him  about  it,  but  he  said,  ‘  Pooh, 
pooh !  as  long  as  my  friends  find  a  good  dinner  and  a  good 
bottle  of  wine,  they  won’t  care  about  my  ceilings  being  rather 
smoky.’  He  was  so  very  hospitable,  was  Sir  John.” 

“  I  think  the  view  of  the  house  from  the  park,  just  after  we 
passed  the  bridge,  particularly  fine,”  said  Miss  Assher,  inter¬ 
posing  rather  eagerly,  as  if  she  feared  her  mother  might  be 
making  infelicitous  speeches,  “and  the  pleasure  of  the  first 
glimpse  was  all  the  greater  because  Anthony  would  describe 
nothing  to  us  beforehand.  He  would  not  spoil  our  first  im¬ 
pressions  by  raising  false  ideas.  I  long  to  go  over  the  house, 
Sir  Christopher,  and  learn  the  history  of  all  your  architectural 
designs,  which  Anthony  says  have  cost  you  so  much  time  and 
study.” 

“  Take  care  how  you  set  an  old  man  talking  about  the  past, 
my  dear,”  said  the  Baronet ;  “  I  hope  we  shall  find  something 
pleasanter  for  you  to  do  than  turning  over  my  old  plans  and  pic¬ 
tures.  Our  friend  Mr.  Gilfil  here  has  found  a  beautiful  mare 
for  you,  and  you  can  scour  the  country  to  your  heart’s  content. 
Anthony  has  sent  us  word  what  a  horsewoman  you  are.” 

Miss  Assher  turned  to  Mr.  Gilfil  with  her  most  beaming 
smile,  and  expressed  her  thanks  with  the  elaborate  gracious¬ 
ness  of  a  person  who  means  to  be  thought  charming,  and  is 
sure  of  success. 

“Pray  do  not  thank  me,”  said  Mr.  Gilfil,  “till  you  have 
tried  the  mare.  She  has  been  ridden  by  Lady  Sara  Linter  for 
the  last  two  years ;  but  one  lady’s  taste  may  not  be  like 
another’s  in  horses,  any  more  than  in  ether  matters.” 

While  this  conversation  was  passing,  Captain  Wybrow  was 
leaning  against  the  mantel-piece,  contenting  himself  with  re¬ 
sponding  from  under  his  indolent  eyelids  to  the  glances  Miss 
Assher  was  constantly  directing  towards  him  as  she  spoke. 
“  She  is  very  much  in  love  with  him,”  thought  Caterina.  But 
she  was  relieved  that  Anthony  remained  passive  in  his  atten¬ 
tions.  She  thought,  too,  that  he  was  looking  paler  and  more 


140 


SCENES  OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


languid  than  usual.  “  If  he  did  n’t  love  her  very  much  —  H 
he  sometimes  thought  of  the  past  with  regret,  I  think  I  could 
bear  it  all,  and  be  glad  to  see  Sir  Christopher  made  happy.” 

During  dinner  there  was  a  little  incident  which  confirmed 
these  thoughts.  When  the  sweets  were  on  the  table,  there 
was  a  mould  of  jelly  just  opposite  Captain  Wybrow,  and  being 
inclined  to  take  some  himself,  he  first  invited  Miss  Assher, 
who  colored,  and  said,  in  rather  a  sharper  key  than  usual, 
“  Have  you  not  learned  by  this  time  that  I  never  take 
jelly?” 

“Don’t  you?”  said  Captain  Wybrow,  whose  perceptions 
were  not  acute  enough  for  him  to  notice  the  difference  of  a 
semitone.  “  I  should  have  thought  you  were  fond  of  it. 
There  was  always  some  on  the  table  at  Farleigh,  I  think.” 

u  You  don’t  seem  to  take  much  interest  in  my  likes  and 
dislikes.” 

“  I too  much  possessed  by  the  happy  thought  that  you 
like  me,”  was  the  ex  officio  reply,  in  silvery  tones. 

This  little  episode  was  unnoticed  by  every  one  but  Caterina. 
Sir  Christopher  was  listening  with  polite  attention  to  Lady 
Assher’s  history  of  her  last  man-cook,  who  was  first-rate  at 
gravies,  and  for  that  reason  pleased  Sir  John  —  he  was  so 
particular  about  his  gravies,  was  Sir  John  :  and  so  they  kept 
the  man  six  years  in  spite  of  his  bad  pastry.  Lady  Cheverel 
and  Mr.  Gilfil  were  smiling  at  Rupert  the  bloodhound,  who 
had  pushed  his  great  head  under  his  master’s  arm,  and  was 
taking  a  survey  of  the  dishes,  after  snuffing  at  the  contents  of 
the  Baronet’s  plate. 

When  the  ladies  were  in  the  drawing-room  again,  Lady 
Assher  was  soon  deep  in  a  statement  to  Lady  Cheverel  of  her 
views  about  burying  people  in  woollen. 

“To  be  sure,  you  must  have  a  woollen  dress,  because  it’s 
the  law,  you  know ;  but  that  need  hinder  no  one  from  putting 
linen  underneath.  I  always  used  to  say,  ‘  If  Sir  John  died 
to-morrow,  I  would  bury  him  in  his  shirt ;  ’  and  I  did.  And 
let  me  advise  you  to  do  so  by  Sir  Christopher.  You  never  saw 
Sir  John,  Lady  Cheverel.  He  wus  a  large  tall  man,  with  a  nose 
just  like  Beatrice,  and  so  ^v  ©articular  about  his  shirts.” 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


W 


Miss  Assher,  meanwhile,  had  seated  herself  by  Caterina, 
and,  with  that  smiling  affability  which  seems  to  say,  “  I  am 
really  not  at  all  proud,  though  you  might  expect  it  of  me/5 
said  — 

u  Anthony  tells  me  you  sing  so  very  beautifully.  I  hope 
we  shall  hear  you  this  evening.” 

“  Oh  yes/5  said  Caterina,  quietly,  without  smiling ;  “  I  al¬ 
ways  sing  when  I  am  wanted  to  sing.55 

“  I  envy  you  such  a  charming  talent.  Do  you  know,  I  have 
no  ear ;  I  cannot  hum  the  smallest  tune,  and  I  delight  in 
music  so.  Is  it  not  unfortunate  ?  But  I  shall  have  quite  a 
treat  while  I  am  here  ;  Captain  Wybrow  says  you  will  give  us 
some  music  every  day.55 

“I  should  have  thought  you  wouldn’t  care  about  music  if 
you  had  no  ear,”  said  Caterina,  becoming  epigrammatic  by 
force  of  grave  simplicity. 

“  Oh,  I  assure  you,  I  dote  on  it ;  and  Anthony  is  so  fond  of 
it ;  it  would  be  so  delightful  if  I  could  play  and  sing  to  him  ; 
though  he  says  he  likes  me  best  not  to  sing,  because  it  does  n’t 
belong  to  his  idea  of  me.  What  style  of  music  do  you  like 
best  ?  ” 

“  I  don’t  know.  I  like  all  beautiful  music.” 

“  And  are  you  as  fond  of  riding  as  of  ?nusic  ?  ” 

“  No  ;  I  never  ride.  I  think  I  should  be  very  frightened.” 

"  Oh  no  !  indeed  you  would  not,  after  a  little  practice.  I 
have  never  been  in  the  least  timid.  I  think  Anthony  is  more 
afraid  for  me  than  I  am  for  myself ;  and  since  I  have  been 
riding  with  him,  I  have  been  obliged  to  be  more  careful,  be¬ 
cause  he  is  so  nervous  about  me.” 

Caterina  made  no  reply ;  but  she  said  to  herself,  “  I  wish 
she  would  go  away  and  not  talk  to  me.  She  only  wants  me 
to  admire  her  good-nature,  and  to  talk  about  Anthony.” 

Miss  Assher  was  thinking  at  the  same  time,  “  This  Miss 
Sarti  seems  a  stupid  little  thing.  Those  musical  people  often 
are.  But  she  is  prettier  than  I  expected ;  Anthony  said  she 
was  not  pretty.” 

Happily  at  this  moment  Lady  Assher  called  her  daughter’s 
attention  to  the  embroidered  cushions,  and  Miss  Assher,  walk- 


142 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


ing  to  the  opposite  sofa,  was  soon  in  conversation  with  Lady 
Cheverel  about  tapestry  and  embroidery  in  general,  while  her 
mother,  feeling  herself  superseded  there,  came  and  placed  her- 
self  beside  Caterina. 

“  I  hear  you  are  the  most  beautiful  singer/’  was  of  course 
the  opening  remark.  “  All  Italians  sing  so  beautifully.  I 
travelled  in  Italy  with  Sir  John  when  we  were  first  married, 
and  we  went  to  Venice,  where  they  go  about  in  gondolas,  you 
know.  You  don’t  wear  powder,  I  see.  No  more  will  Beatrice ; 
though  many  people  think  her  curls  would  look  all  the  better 
for  powder.  She  has  so  much  hair,  has  n’t  she  ?  Our  last 
toaid  dressed  it  much  better  than  this  ;  but,  do  you  know,  she 
wore  Beatrice’s  stockings  before  they  went  to  the  wash,  and 
we  could  n’t  keep  her  after  that,  could  we  ?  ” 

Caterina,  accepting  the  question  as  a  mere  bit  of  rhetorical 
effect,  thought  it  superfluous  to  reply,  till  Lady  Assher  re¬ 
peated,  “  Could  we,  now  ?  ”  as  if  Tina’s  sanction  were  essential 
to  her  repose  of  mind.  After  a  faint  “  No,”  she  went  on. 

“  Maids  are  so  very  troublesome,  and  Beatrice  is  so  particu¬ 
lar,  you  can’t  imagine.  I  often  say  to  her,  ‘My  dear,  you 
can’t  have  perfection.’  That  very  gown  she  has  on  —  to  be 
sure,  it  fits  her  beautifully  now  —  but  it  has  been  unmade  and 
made  up  again  twice.  But  she  is  like  poor  Sir  John  —  he  was 
so  very  particular  about  his  own  things,  was  Sir  John.  Is 
Lady  Cheverel  particular?” 

“  Rather.  But  Mrs.  Sharp  has  been  her  maid  twenty  years.” 

“  I  wish  there  was  any  chance  of  our  keeping  Griffin  twenty 
years.  But  I  am  afraid  we  shall  have  to  part  with  her  because 
her  health  is  so  delicate ;  and  she  is  so  obstinate,  she  will  not 
take  bitters  as  I  want  her.  You  look  delicate,  now.  Let  me 
recommend  you  to  take  camomile  tea  in  a  morning,  fasting. 
Beatrice  is  so  strong  and  healthy,  she  never  takes  any  medi¬ 
cine  ;  but  if  I  had  had  twenty  girls,  and  they  had  been  delicate, 
I  should  have  given  them  all  camomile  tea.  It  strengthens 
the  constitution  beyond  anything.  Now,  will  you  promise  me 
to  take  camomile  tea  ?  ” 

<f  Thank  you ;  I ’m  not  at  all  ill,”  said  Caterina.  “  I ’ve 
always  been  pale  and  thin.” 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


143 


Lady  Assher  was  sure  camomile  tea  would  make  all  the 
difference  in  the  world  —  Caterina  must  see  if  it  would  n’t  — 
and  then  went  dribbling  on  like  a  leaky  shower-bath,  until  the 
early  entrance  of  the  gentlemen  created  a  diversion,  and  she 
fastened  on  Sir  Christopher,  who  probably  began  to  think 
that,  for  poetical  purposes,  it  would  be  better  not  to  meet 
one’s  first  love  again,  after  a  lapse  of  forty  years. 

Captain  Wybrow,  of  course,  joined  his  aunt  and  Miss  Assher, 
and  Mr.  Gilfil  tried  to  relieve  Caterina  from  the  awkwardness 
of  sitting  aloof  and  dumb,  by  telling  her  how  a  friend  of  his 
had  broken  his  arm  and  staked  his  horse  that  morning,  not  at 
all  appearing  to  heed  that  she  hardly  listened,  and  was  looking 
towards  the  other  side  of  the  room.  One  of  the  tortures  of 
jealousy  is,  that  it  can  never  turn  away  its  eyes  from  the  thing 
that  pains  it. 

By-and-by  every  one  felt  the  need  of  a  relief  from  chit-chat 
—  Sir  Christopher  perhaps  the  most  of  all  —  and  it  was  he 
who  made  the  acceptable  proposition  — 

“  Come,  Tina,  are  we  to  have  no  music  to-night  before  we 
sit  down  to  cards  ?  Your  ladyship  plays  at  cards,  I  think  ?  ” 
he  added,  recollecting  himself,  and  turning  to  Lady  Assher. 

“Oh  yes!  Poor  dear  Sir  John  would  have  a  whist-table 
every  night.” 

Caterina  sat  down  to  the  harpsichord  at  once,  and  had  no 
sooner  begun  to  sing  than  she  perceived  with  delight  that 
Captain  Wybrow  was  gliding  towards  the  harpsichord,  and 
soon  standing  in  the  old  place.  This  consciousness  gave  fresh 
strength  to  her  voice ;  and  when  she  noticed  that  Miss  Assher 
presently  followed  him  with  that  air  of  ostentatious  admira¬ 
tion  which  belongs  to  the  absence  of  real  enjoyment,  her  clos¬ 
ing  bravura  was  none  the  worse  for  being  animated  by  a  little 
triumphant  contempt. 

“Why,  you  are  in  better  voice  than  ever,  Caterina,”  said 
Captain  Wybrow,  when  she  had  ended.  “  This  is  rather  dif¬ 
ferent  from  Miss  Hibbert’s  small  piping  that  we  used  to  be 
glad  of  at  Farleigh,  is  it  not,  Beatrice  ?  ” 

“  Indeed  it  is.  You  are  a  most  enviable  creature,  Miss 
Sarti —  Caterina — may  I  not  call  you  Caterina?  for  I  have 


144 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


heard  Anthony  speak  of  you  so  often,  I  seem  to  know  you 
quite  well.  You  will  let  me  call  you  Caterina  ?  55 

“  Oh  yes,  every  one  calls  me  Caterina,  only  when  they  call 
me  Tina.” 

“Come,  come,  more  singing,  more  singing,  little  monkey/5 
Sir  Christopher  called  out  from  the  other  side  of  the  room. 
“We  have  not  had  half  enough  yet.55 

Caterina  was  ready  enough  to  obey,  for  while  she  was  sing¬ 
ing  she  was  queen  of  the  room,  and  Miss  Assher  was  reduced 
to  grimacing  admiration.  Alas !  you  see  what  jealousy  was 
doing  in  this  poor  young  soul.  Caterina,  who  had  passed  her 
life  as  a  little  unobtrusive  singing-bird,  nestling  so  fondly 
under  the  wings  that  were  outstretched  for  her,  her  heart 
beating  only  to  the  peaceful  rhythm  of  love,  or  fluttering  with 
some  easily  stifled  fear,  had  begun  to  know  the  fierce  palpita¬ 
tions  of  triumph  and  hatred. 

When  the  singing  was  over,  Sir  Christopher  and  Lady 
Cheverel  sat  down  to  whist  with  Lady  Assher  and  Mr.  Gilfil, 
and  Caterina  placed  herself  at  the  Baronet’s  elbow  as  if  to 
watch  the  game,  that  zjhe  might  not  appear  to  thrust  herself 
on  the  pair  of  lovers.  At  first  she  was  glowing  with  her  little 
triumph,  and  felt  the  strength  of  pride;  but  her  eye  would 
steal  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  fireplace,  where  Captain 
Wybrow  had  seated  himself  close  to  Miss  Assher,  and  was 
leaning  with  his  arm  over  the  back  of  the  chair,  in  the  most 
lover-like  position.  Caterina  began  to  feel  a  choking  sensa¬ 
tion.  She  could  see,  almost  without  looking,  that  he  was 
taking  up  her  arm  to  examine  her  bracelet ;  their  heads  were 
bending  close  together,  her  curls  touching  his  cheek  —  now  he 
was  putting  his  lips  to  her  hand.  Caterina  felt  her  cheeks 
burn  —  she  could  sit  no  longer.  She  got  up,  pretended  to  be 
gliding  about  in  search  of  something,  and  at  length  slipped 
out  of  che  room. 

Outside,  she  took  a  candle,  and,  hurrying  along  the  passages 
and  up  the  stairs  to  her  own  room,  locked  the  door. 

“  Oh,  I  cannot  bear  it,  I  cannot  bear  it !  ”  the  poor  thing 
burst  out  aloud,  clasping  her  little  fingers,  and  pressing  them 
back  against  her  forehead,  as  if  she  wanted  to  break  them. 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


145 


Then  she  walked  hurriedly  up  and  down  the  room. 

“And  this  must  go  on  for  days  and  days,  and  I  must 
see  it.” 

She  looked  about  nervously  for  something  to  clutch.  There 
was  a  muslin  kerchief  lying  on  the  table  ;  she  took  it  up 
and  tore  it  into  shreds  as  she  walked  up  and  down,  and  then 
pressed  it  into  hard  balls  in  her  hand. 

“  And  Anthony,”  she  thought,  “  he  can  do  this  without 
caring  for  what  I  feel.  Oh,  he  can  forget  everything :  how 
he  used  to  say  he  loved  me  —  how  he  used  to  take  my  hand 
in  his  as  we  walked  —  how  he  used  to  stand  near  me  in  the 
evenings  for  the  sake  of  looking  into  my  eyes.” 

“  Oh,  it  is  cruel,  t  is  cruel !  ”  she  burst  out  again  aloud,  a3 
all  those  love-moments  in  the  past  returned  upon  her.  Then 
the  tears  gushed  forth,  she  threw  herself  on  her  kuees  by  the 
bed,  and  sobbed  bitterly. 

She  did  not  know  how  long  she  had  been  there,  till  she  was 
startled  by  the  prayer-bell ;  when,  thinking  Lady  Cheverel 
might  perhaps  send  some  one  to  inquire  after  her,  she  rose, 
and  began  hastily  to  undress,  that  there  might  be  no  possibil¬ 
ity  of  her  going  down  again.  She  had  hardly  unfastened  her 
hair,  and  thrown  a  loose  gown  about  her,  before  there  was  / 
knock  at  the  door,  and  Mrs.  Sharp’s  voice  said  —  “  Miss  Tins 
my  lady  wants  to  know  if  you  ’re  ill.” 

Caterina  opened  the  door  and  said,  “  Thank  you,  dear  Mrs 
Sharp  ;  T  have  a  bad  headache ;  please  tell  my  lady  I  felt  it 
come  on  after  singing.” 

“  Then,  goodness  me  !  why  are  n’t  you  in  bed,  instead  o’ 
standing  shivering  there,  fit  to  catch  your  death  ?  Come,  let 
me  fasten  up  your  hair  and  tuck  you  up  warm.” 

“  Oh  no,  thank  you  ;  I  shall  really  be  in  bed  very  soon. 
Good-night,  dear  Sharpy  ;  don’t  scold ;  I  will  be  good,  and  get 
into  bed.” 

Caterina  kissed  her  old  friend  coaxingly,  but  Mrs.  Sharp 
was  not  to  be  “come  over”  in  that  way,  and  insisted  on  see¬ 
ing  her  former  charge  m  bed,  taking  away  the  candle  which 
the  poor  child  had  wanted  to  keep  as  a  companion. 

But  it  was  impossible  to  He  there  long  with  that  beating 

VOL.  IV. 


146 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


heart ;  and  the  little  white  figure  was  soon  out  of  bed  again, 
seekiug  relief  in  the  very  sense  of  chill  and  uncomfort.  It 
was  light  enough  for  her  to  see  about  her  room,  for  the  moon, 
nearly  at  full,  was  riding  high  in  the  heavens  among  scattered 
hurrying  clouds.  Caterina  drew  aside  the  window-curtain,  and, 
fitting  with  her  forehead  pressed  against  the  cold  pane,  looked 
out  on  the  wide  stretch  of  park  and  lawn. 

How  dreary  the  moonlight  is !  robbed  of  all  its  tenderness 
and  repose  by  the  hard  driving  wind.  The  trees  are  harassed 
by  that  tossing  motion,  when  they  would  like  to  be  at  rest ; 
the  shivering  grass  makes  her  quake  with  sympathetic  cold ; 
and  the  willows  by  the  pool,  bent  low  and  white  under  that 
invisible  harshness,  seem  agitated  and  helpless  like  herself. 
But  she  loves  the  scene  the  better  for  its  sadness :  there  is 
some  pity  in  it.  It  is  not  like  that  hard  unfeeling  happiness 
of  lovers,  flaunting  in  the  eyes  of  misery. 

She  set  her  teeth  tight  against  the  window-frame,  and  the 
tears  fell  thick  and  fast.  She  was  so  thankful  she  could  cry, 
for  the  mad  passion  she  had  felt  when  her  eyes  were  dry 
frightened  her.  If  that  dreadful  feeling  were  to  come  on 
when  Lady  Cheverel  was  present,  she  should  never  be  able  to 
contain  herself. 

Then  there  was  Sir  Christopher  —  so  good  to  her  —  so  happy 
about  Anthony’s  marriage ;  and  all  the  while  she  had  these 
wicked  feelings. 

“  Oh,  I  cannot  help  it,  I  cannot  help  it !  ”  she  said  in  a  loud 
whisper  between  her  sobs.  “  0  God,  have  pity  upon  me !  ” 

In  this  way  Tina  wore  out  the  long  hours  of  the  windy 
moonlight,  till  at  last,  with  weary  aching  limbs,  she  lay  down 
in  bed  again,  and  slept  from  mere  exhaustion. 

While  this  poor  little  heart  was  being  bruised  with  a  weight 
too  heavy  for  it,  Nature  was  holding  on  her  calm  inexorable 
way,  in  unmoved  and  terrible  beauty.  The  stars  were  rush¬ 
ing  in  their  eternal  courses  ;  the  tides  swelled  to  the  level  of 
the  last  expectant  weed ;  the  sun  was  making  brilliant  day 
to  busy  nations  on  the  other  side  of  the  swift  earth.  The 
stream  of  human  thought  and  deed  was  hurrying  and  broaden* 
ing  onward.  The  astronomer  was  at  his  telescope ;  the  grea.t 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


147 


ships  were  laboring  over  the  waves  ;  the  toiling  eagerness  of 
commerce,  the  fierce  spirit  of  revolution,  were  only  ebbing  in 
brief  rest ;  and  sleepless  statesmen  were  dreading  the  possible 
crisis  of  the  morrow.  What  were  our  little  Tina  and  her 
trouble  in  this  mighty  torrent,  rushing  from  one  awful  un¬ 
known  to  another  ?  Lighter  than  the  smallest  centre  of  quiv¬ 
ering  life  in  the  water-drop,  hidden  and  uncared  for  as  the 
pulse  of  anguish  in  the  breast  of  the  tiniest  bird  that  has  flut¬ 
tered  down  to  its  nest  with  the  long-sought  food,  and  has 
found  the  nest  torn  and  empty. 


♦ 


CHAPTER  VL 


The  next  morning,  when  Caterina  was  waked  from  her 
heavy  sleep  by  Martha  bringing  in  the  warm  water,  the  sun 
was  shining,  the  wind  had  abated,  and  those  hours  of  suffering 
in  the  night  seemed  unreal  and  dreamlike,  in  spite  of  weary 
limbs  and  aching  eyes.  She  got  up  and  began  to  dress  with  a 
strange  feeling  of  insensibility,  as  if  nothing  could  make  her 
cry  again ;  and  she  even  felt  a  sort  of  longing  to  be  down¬ 
stairs  in  the  midst  of  company,  that  she  might  get  rid  of  this 
benumbed  condition  by  contact. 

There  are  few  of  us  that  are  not  rather  ashamed  of  our  sins 
and  follies  as  we  look  out  on  the  blessed  morning  sunlight, 
which  comes  to  us  like  a  bright-winged  angel  beckoning  us  to 
quit  the  old  path  of  vanity  that  stretches  its  dreary  length 
behind  us ;  and  Tina,  little  as  she  knew  about  doctrines  and 
theories,  seemed  to  herself  to  have  been  both  foolish  and  wicked 
yesterday.  To-day  she  would  try  to  be  good  ;  and  when  she 
knelt  down  to  say  her  short  prayer  —  the  very  form  she  had 
learned  by  heart  when  she  was  tan  years  old  —  she  added, 
“0  God,  help  me  to  bear  it !  ” 

That  day  the  prayer  seemed  to  be  answered,  for  after  some 


148 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


remarks  on  her  pale  looks  at  breakfast,  Caterina  passed  the 
morning  quietly,  Miss  Assher  and  Captain  Wybrow  being  out 
on  a  riding  excursion.  In  the  evening  there  was  a  dinner¬ 
party,  and  after  Caterina  had  sung  a  little,  Lady  Cheverel, 
remembering  that  she  was  ailing,  sent  her  to  bed,  where  she 
soon  sank  into  a  deep  sleep.  Body  and  mind  must  renew 
their  force  to  suffer  as  well  as  to  enjoy. 

On  the  morrow,  however,  it  was  rainy,  and  every  one  must 
stay  in-doors ;  so  it  was  resolved  that  the  guests  should  be 
taken  over  the  house  by  Sir  Christopher,  to  hear  the  story 
of  the  architectural  alterations,  the  family  portraits,  and  the 
family  relics.  All  the  party,  except  Mr.  Gilfil,  were  in  the 
drawing-room  when  the  proposition  was  made ;  and  when  Miss 
Assher  rose  to  go,  she  looked  towards  Captain  Wybrow,  ex¬ 
pecting  to  see  him  rise  too ;  but  he  kept  his  seat  near  the  fire, 
turning  his  eyes  towards  the  newspaper  which  he  had  been 
holding  unread  in  his  hand. 

“  Are  you  not  coming,  Anthony  ?  ”  said  Lady  Cheverel, 
noticing  Miss  Assher’s  look  of  expectation. 

“  I  think  not,  if  you  ’ll  excuse  me,”  he  answered,  rising  and 
opening  the  door ;  “  I  feel  a  little  chilled  this  morning,  and  I 
am  afraid  of  the  cold  rooms  and  draughts.” 

Miss  Assher  reddened,  but  said  nothing,  and  passed  on, 
Lady  Cheverel  accompanying  her. 

Caterina  was  seated  at  work  in  the  oriel  window.  It  was 
the  first  time  she  and  Anthony  had  been  alone  together,  and 
she  had  thought  before  that  he  wished  to  avoid  her.  But 
now,  surely,  he  wanted  to  speak  to  her  —  he  wanted  to  say 
something  kind.  Presently  he  rose  from  his  seat  near  th< 
fire,  and  placed  himself  on  the  ottoman  opposite  to  her. 

“  Well,  Tina,  and  how  have  you  been  all  this  long  time  ?  ” 

Both  the  tone  and  the  words  were  an  offence  to  her ;  tl  <j 
tone  was  so  different  from  the  old  one,  the  words  were  so  caid 
and  unmeaning.  She  answered,  with  a  little  bitterness  — 

“  I  think  you  need  n’t  ask.  It  does  n’t  make  much  difference 
to  you.” 

« Is  that  the  kindest  thing  you  have  to  say  to  me  after  my 
long  absence  ?  ” 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY.  149 

“I  don’t  know  why  you  should  expect  me  to  say  kind 
things.” 

Captain  Wybrow  was  silent.  He  wished  very  much  to 
avoid  allusions  to  the  past  or  comments  on  the  present.  And 
yet  he  wished  to  be  well  with  Cater  in  a.  He  would  have  liked 
to  caress  her,  make  her  presents,  and  have  her  think  him  very 
kind  to  her.  But  these  women  are  plaguy  perverse  !  There ’s 
no  bringing  them  to  look  rationally  at  anything.  At  last  he 
said,  “  I  hoped  you  would  think  all  the  better  of  me,  Tina,  for¬ 
doing  as  I  have  done,  instead  of  bearing  malice  towards  me. 
I  hoped  you  would  see  that  it  is  the  best  thing  for  every  one 
—  the  best  for  your  happiness  too.” 

“  Oh,  pray  don’t  make  love  to  Miss  Assher  for  the  sake  of 
my  happiness,”  answered  Tina. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Miss  Assher  entered, 
to  fetch  her  reticule,  which  lay  on  the  harpsichord.  She  gave 
a  keen  glance  at  Caterina,  whose  face  was  flushed,  and  saying 
to  Captain  Wybrow  with  a  slight  sneer,  “  Since  you  are  so 
chill  I  wonder  you  like  to  sit  in  the  window,”  left  the  room 
again  immediately. 

The  lover  did  not  appear  much  discomposed,  but  sat  quiet 
a  little  longer,  and  then,  seating  himself  on  the  music-stool, 
drew  it  near  to  Caterina,  and,  taking  her  hand,  said,  “  Come, 
Tina,  look  kindly  at  me,  and  let  us  be  friends.  I  shall  always 
be  your  friend.” 

“  Thank  you,”  said  Caterina,  drawing  away  her  hand.  “  You 
are  very  generous.  But  pray  move  away.  Miss  Assher  may 
come  in  again.” 

“  Miss  Assher  be  hanged  !  ”  said  Anthony,  feeling  the  fasci¬ 
nation  of  old  habit  returning  on  him  in  his  proximity  to  Cate¬ 
rina.  He  put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  leaned  his  cheek 
down  to  hers.  The  lips  could  n’t  help  meeting  after  that ;  but 
the  next  moment,  with  heart  swelling  and  tears  rising,  Caterina 
burst  away  from  him,  and  rushed  out  of  the  room. 


15  0 


SCENES  OE  CLEK1CAL  LIFE* 


CHAPTEK  VIL 

Caterina  tore  herself  from  Anthony  with  the  desperate 
effort  of  one  who  has  just  self-recollection  enough  left  to  be 
conscious  that  the  fumes  of  charcoal  will  master  his  senses 
unless  he  bursts  a  way  for  himself  to  the  fresh  air  ;  but  when 
she  reached  her  own  room,  she  was  still  too  intoxicated  with 
that  momentary  revival  of  old  emotions,  too  much  agitated  by 
the  sudden  return  of  tenderness  in  her  lover,  to  know  whether 
pain  or  pleasure  predominated.  It  was  as  if  a  miracle  had 
happened  in  her  little  world  of  feeling,  and  made  the  future 
all  vague  —  a  dim  morning  haze  of  possibilities,  instead  of  the 
sombre  wintry  daylight  and  clear  rigid  outline  of  painful 
certainty. 

She  felt  the  need  of  rapid  movement.  She  must  walk  out 
in  spite  of  the  rain.  Happily,  there  was  a  thin  place  in  the 
curtain  of  clouds  which  seemed  to  promise  that  now,  about 
noon,  the  day  had  a  mind  to  clear  up.  Caterina  thought  to 
herself,  “  I  will  walk  to  the  Mosslands,  and  carry  Mr.  Bates 
the  comforter  I  have  made  for  him,  and  then  Lady  Cheverel 
will  not  wonder  so  much  at  my  going  out.”  At  the  hall  door 
she  found  Rupert  the  old  bloodhound,  stationed  on  the  mat, 
with  the  determination  that  the  first  person  who  was  sensible 
enough  to  take  a  walk  that  morning  should  have  the  honor  of 
his  approbation  and  society.  As  he  thrust  his  great  black  and 
tawny  head  under  her  hand,  and  wagged  his  tail  with  vigorous 
eloquence,  and  reached  the  climax  of  his  welcome  by  jumping 
up  to  lick  her  face,  which  was  at  a  convenient  licking  height 
for  him,  Caterina  felt  quite  grateful  to  the  old  dog  for  his 
friendliness.  Animals  are  such  agreeable  friends  —  they  ask 
no  questions,  they  pass  no  criticisms. 

The  “  Mosslands  ”  was  a  remote  part  of  the  grounds,  encir¬ 
cled  by  the  little  stream  issuing  from  the  pool ;  and  certainly, 
for  a  wet  day,  Caterina  could  hardly  have  chosen  a  less  suit¬ 
able  walk,  for  though  the  rain  was  abating,  and  presently 


Shepperton  Village 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


151 


\ieased  altogether,  there  was  still  a  smart  shower  falling  from 
the  trees  which  arched  over  the  greater  part  of  her  way.  But 
she  found  just  the  desired  relief  from  her  feverish  excitement 
in  laboring  along  the  wet  paths  with  an  umbrella  that  made 
her  arm  ache.  This  amount  of  exertion  was  to  her  tiny  body 
what  a  day’s  hunting  often  was  to  Mr.  Gilfil,  who  at  times  had 
his  fits  of  jealousy  and  sadness  to  get  rid  of,  and  wisely  had 
recourse  to  nature’s  innocent  opium  —  fatigue. 

When  Caterina  reached  the  pretty  arched  wooden  bridge 
which  formed  the  only  entrance  to  the  Mosslands  for*  any  but 
webbed  feet,  the  sun  had  mastered  the  clouds,  and  was  shining 
through  the  boughs  of  the  tall  elms  that  made  a  deep  nest  for 
the  gardener’s  cottage  —  turning  the  raindrops  into  diamonds, 
and  inviting  the  nasturtium  flowers  creeping  over  the  porch 
and  low-thatched  roof  to  lift  up  their  flame-colored  heads  once 
more.  The  rooks  were  cawing  with  many-voiced  monotony, 
apparently  —  by  a  remarkable  approximation  to  human  intelli¬ 
gence —  finding  great  conversational  resources  in  the  change 
of  weather.  The  mossy  turf,  studded  with  the  broad  blades 
of  marsh-loving  plants,  told  that  Mr.  Bates’s  nest  was  rather 
damp  in  the  best  of  weather ;  but  he  was  of  opinion  that  a 
little  external  moisture  would  hurt  no  man  who  was  not  per¬ 
versely  neglectful  of  that  obvious  and  providential  antidote, 
rum-and-water. 

Caterina  loved  this  nest.  Every  object  in  it,  every  sound 
that  haunted  it,  had  been  familiar  to  her  from  the  days  when 
she  had  been  carried  thither  on  Mr.  Bates’s  arm,  maki^  1U*/U 
cawing  noises  to  imitate  the  rooks,  clapping  her  hands  at  the 
green  frogs  leaping  in  the  moist  grass,  and  fixing  grave  eyes 
on  the  gardener’s  fowls  cluck-clucking  under  their  pens.  And 
now  the  spot  looked  prettier  to  her  than  ever ;  it  was  so  out 
of  the  way  of  Miss  Assher,  with  her  brilliant  beauty,  and  per¬ 
sonal  claims,  and  small  civil  remarks.  She  thought  Mr.  Bates 
would  not  be  come  in  to  his  dinner  yet,  so  she  would  sit  down 
and  wait  for  him. 

But  she  was  mistaken.  Mr.  Bates  was  seated  In  his  arm¬ 
chair,  with  his  pocket-handkerchief  thrown  over  his  face  as 
the  most  eligible  mode  of  passing  away  those  superfluous 


152 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


hours  between  meals  when  the  weather  drives  a  man  indoors. 
Roused  by  the  furious  barking  of  his  chained  bull-dog,  he  des¬ 
cried  his  little  favorite  approaching,  and  forthwith  presented 
himself  at  the  doorway,  looking  disproportionately  tall  com¬ 
pared  with  the  height  of  his  cottage.  The  bull-dog,  mean* 
while3  unbent  from  the  severity  of  his  official  demeanor,  and 
commenced  a  friendly  interchange  of  ideas  with  Rupert. 

Mr.  Bates’s  hair  was  now  gray,  but  his  frame  was  none  the 
less  stalwart,  and  his  face  looked  all  the  redder,  making  an 
artistic  contrast  with  the  deep  blue  of  his  cotton  necker¬ 
chief,  and  of  his  linen  apron  twisted  into  a  girdle  round  his 
waist. 

“  Why,  dang  my  boottons,  Miss  Tiny,”  he  exclaimed,  “  hoo 
coom  ye  to  coom  oot  dabblin’  your  faet  laike  a  little  Muscovy 
duck,  sich  a  day  as  this  ?  Not  but  what  ai ’m  delaighted  to 
sae  ye.  Here  Hesther,”  he  called  to  his  old  humpbacked 
housekeeper,  “tek  the  young  ledy’s  oombrella  an’  spread  it 
oot  to  dray.  Coom,  coom  in,  Miss  Tiny,  an’  set  ye  doon  by 
the  faire  an’  dray  yer  faet,  an’  hev  summat  warm  to  kape  ye 
from  ketchin’  coold.” 

Mr.  Bates  led  the  way,  stooping  under  the  door-places,  into 
his  small  sitting-room,  and,  shaking  the  patchwork  cushion  in 
his  arm-chair,  moved  it  to  within  a  good  roasting  distance 
of  the  blazing  fire. 

“  Thank  you,  uncle  Bates  ”  (Caterina  kept  up  her  childish 
epithets  for  her  friends,  and  this  was  one  of  them)  ;  “  not 
quite  so  close  to  the  fire,  for  I  am  warm  with  walking.” 

“  Eh,  but  yer  shoes  are  fame  an’  wet,  an’  ye  must  put  up 
yer  faet  on  the  fender.  Rare  big  faet,  baint  ’em  ?  —  aboot  the 
saize  of  a  good  big  spoon.  I  woonder  ye  can  mek  a  shift  to 
stan’  on  ’em.  Now,  what’ll  ye  hev  to  warm  yer  insaide  ?  —  a 
drop  o’  hot  elder  wain,  now  ?  ” 

“  No,  not  anything  to  drink,  thank  you  ;  it  is  n’t  very  long 
since  breakfast,”  said  Caterina,  drawing  out  the  comforter 
from  her  deep  pocket.  Pockets  were  capacious  in  those  days. 
“  Look  here,  uncle  Bates,  here  is  what  I  came  to  bring  you.  I 
made  it  on  purpose  for  you.  You  must  wear  it  this  winter, 
and  give  your  red  one  to  old  Brooks.” 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


153 


“Eh,  Miss  Tiny,  this  is  a  beauty.  An’  ye  made  it  all  wr 
yer  little  fingers  for  an  old  feller  laike  mae  !  I  tek  it  very 
kaind  on  ye,  an’  I  belave  ye  I  ’ll  wear  it,  and  be  prood  on ’t 
too.  These  sthraipes,  blue  an’  whaite,  now,  they  mek  it 
uncommon  pritty.” 

“  Yes,  that  will  suit  your  complexion,  you  know,  better  than 
the  old  scarlet  one.  I  know  Mrs.  Sharp  will  be  more  in  love 
with  you  than  ever  when  she  sees  you  in  the  new  one.” 

“  My  complexion,  ye  little  roogue  !  ye  he  a  laughin’  at  me. 
But  talkin’  o’  complexions,  what  a  beautiful  color  the  bride  as 
is  to  be  has  on  her  cheeks  !  Dang  my  boottons  !  she  looks 
faine  and  handsome  o’  hossback  —  sits  as  upraight  as  a  dart, 
wi’  a  figure  like  a  statty  !  Misthress  Sharp  has  promised  to 
put  me  behaind  one  o’  the  doors  when  the  ladies  are  cornin’ 
doon  to  dinner,  so  as  I  may  sae  the  young  un  i’  full  dress, ‘wi 
all  her  curls  an’  that.  Misthress  Sharp  says  she ’s  almost  beau- 
tifuller  nor  my  ledy  was  when  she  was  yoong ;  an’  I  think  ye  ’ll 
noot  faind  many  i’  the  counthry  as  ’ll  coom  up  to  that.” 

“  Yes,  Miss  Assher  is  very  handsome,”  said  Caterina,  rather 
faintly,  feeling  the  sense  of  her  own  insignificance  returning 
at  this  picture  of  the  impression  Miss  Assher  made  on 
others. 

“Well,  an’  I  hope  she’s  good  too,  an  ’ll  mek  a  good  naice  to 
Sir  Cristhifer  an’  my  ledy.  Misthress  Griffin,  the  maid,  says 
as  she ’s  rether  tatchy  and  find-fautin’  aboot  her  cloothes,  laike. 
But  she ’s  yoong  —  she ’s  yoong  ;  that  ’ll  wear  off  when  she  ’a 
got  a  hoosband,  an’  children,  an’  sum  mat  else  to  think  on. 
Sir  Cristhifer ’s  fain  an’  delaighted,  I  can  see.  He  says  to  me 
th’  other  mornin’,  says  he,  ‘Well,  Bates,  what  do  you  think  of 
your  young  misthress  as  is  to  be  ?  ’  An’  I  says,  ‘  Whay,  yer 
honor,  I  think  she ’s  as  fain  a  lass  as  iver  I  set  eyes  on ;  an’  1 
wish  the  Captain  luck  in  a  fain  family,  an’  your  honor  laife 
an’  health  to  see ’t.’  Mr.  Warren  says  as  the  masther’s  all 
for  forrardin’  the  weddin’,  an’  it’ll  very  laike  be  afore  the 
autumn  ’s  oot.” 

As  Mr.  Bates  ran  on,  Caterina  felt  something  like  a  painful 
contraction  at  her  heart.  “  Yes,”  she  said,  rising,  “I  dare  say 
it  will.  tSir  Christopher  is  very  anxious  for  it.  But  I  must 


154 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


go,  uncle  Bates  j  Lady  Cheverel  will  be  wanting  me,  and  it  is 
your  dinner-time.” 

“Nay,  my  dinner  doon’t  sinnify  a  bit;  but  I  moos  n’t  kaep 
ye  if  my  ledy  wants  ye.  Though  I  hev  n’t  thanked  ye  half 
anoof  for  the  comhter  —  the  wrapraskil,  as  they  call’t.  My 
feckins,  it ’s  a  beauty.  But  ye  look  very  wliaite  and  sadly, 
Miss  Tiny ;  I  doubt  ye  ’re  poorly ;  an’  this  walking  i’  th’  wet 
is  n’t  good  for  ye.” 

“Oh  yes,  it  is  indeed,”  said  Caterina,  hastening  out,  and 
taking  up  her  umbrella  from  the  kitchen  floor.  “  I  must  really 
go  now ;  so  good-by.” 

She  tripped  off,  calling  Rupert,  while  the  good  gardener,  his 
hands  thrust  deep  in  his  pockets,  stood  looking  after  her  and 
shaking  his  head  with  rather  a  melancholy  air. 

“  She  gets  moor  nesli  and  dillicat  than  iver,”  he  said,  half 
to  himself  and  half  to  Hester.  “I  shouldn’t  woonder  if  she 
fades  away  laike  them  cyclamens  as  I  transplanted.  She  puts 
me  i’  maind.  on  ’em  somehow,  hangin’  on  their  little  thin 
stalks,  so  whaite  an’  tinder.” 

The  poor  little  thing  made  her  way  back,  no  longer  hunger¬ 
ing  for  the  cold  moist  air  as  a  counteractive  of  inward  ex¬ 
citement,  but  with  a  chill  at  her  heart  which  made  the 
outward  chill  only  depressing.  The  golden  sunlight  beamed 
through  the  dripping  boughs  like  a  Shechinah,  or  visible 
divine  presence,  and  the  birds  were  chirping  and  trilling 
their  new  autumnal  songs  so  sweetly,  it  seemed  as  if  their 
tnroais,  as  well  as  the  air,  were  all  the  clearer  for  the  rain ; 
but  Caterina  moved  through  all  this  joy  and  beauty  like  a  poor 
wounded  leveret  painfully  dragging  its  little  body  through  the 
sweet  clover-tufts  —  for  it,  sweet  in  vain.  Mr.  Bates’s  words 
about  Sir  Christopher’s  joy,  Miss  Assher’s  beauty,  and  the 
nearness  of  the  wedding,  had  come  upon  her  like  the  pressure 
of  a  cold  hand,  rousing  her  from  confused  dozing  to  a  percept 
tion  of  hard,  familiar  realities.  It  is  so  with  emotional  natures, 
whose  thoughts  are  no  more  than  the  fleeting  shadows  cast  by 
feeling :  to  them  words  are  facts,  and  even  when  known  to  be 
false,  have  a  mastery  over  their  smiles  and  tears.  Caterina 
entered  her  own  room  again,  with  no  other  change  from  her 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


155 


former  state  of  despondency  and  wretchedness  than  an  addi¬ 
tional  sense  of  injury  from  Anthony.  His  behavior  towards 
her  in  the  morning  was  a  new  wrong.  To  snatch  a  caress  when 
she  justly  claimed  an  expression  of  penitence,  of  regret,  oi 
ympathy,  was  to  make  more  light  of  her  than  ever. 


♦ 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

That  evening  Miss  Assher  seemed  to  carry  herself  with 
unusual  haughtiness,  and  was  coldly  observant  of  Caterina. 
There  was  unmistakably  thunder  in  the  air.  Captain  Wybrow 
appeared  to  take  the  matter  very  easily,  and  was  inclined  to 
brave  it  out  by  paying  more  than  ordinary  attention  to  Caterina. 
Mr.  Gilfil  had  induced  her  to  play  a  game  at  draughts  with 
him,  Lady  Assher  being  seated  at  picquet  with  Sir  Christo¬ 
pher,  and  Miss  Assher  in  determined  conversation  with  Lady 
Cheverel.  Anthony,  thus  left  as  an  odd  unit,  sauntered  up  to 
Caterina’s  chair,  and  leaned  behind  her,  watching  the  game. 
Tina,  with  all  the  remembrances  of  the  morning  thick  upon 
her,  felt  her  cheeks  becoming  more  and  more  crimson,  and  at 
last  said  impatiently,  “  I  wish  you  would  go  away.” 

This  happened  directly  under  the  view  of  Miss  Assher,  who 
saw  Caterina’s  reddening  cneeks,  saw  that  she  said  something 
impatiently,  °nd  that  Captain  Wybrow  moved  away  in  conse¬ 
quence.  There  was  another  person,  too,  who  had  noticed  this 
incident  with  strong  interest,  and  who  was  moreover  aware 
that  Miss  Assher  not  only  saw,  but  keenly  observed  what  was 
passing.  That  other  person  was  Mr.  Gilfil,  and  he  drew  some 
painful  conclusions  which  heightened  his  anxiety  for  Caterina. 

The  next  morning,  in  spite  of  the  fine  weather,  Miss  Assher 
declined  riding,  and  Lady  Cheverel,  perceiving  that  there  was 
something  wrong  between  the  lovers,  took  care  that  they  should 
be  left  together  in  the  drawing-room-  Miss  Assher,  seated  on 


156 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


the  sofa  near  the  fire,  was  busy  with  some  fancy-work,  in  which 
she  seemed  bent  on  making  great  progress  this  morning.  Cap¬ 
tain  Wybrow  sat  opposite  with  a  newspaper  T*  n  his  hand,  from 
which  he  obligingly  read  extracts  with  an  elaborately  easy  air, 
wilfully  unconscious  of  the  contemptuous  silence  with  which 
she  pursued  her  filigree  work.  At  length  he  put  down  the 
paper,  which  he  could  no  longer  pretend  not  to  have  exhausted, 
and  Miss  Assher  then  said  — 

“  You  seem  to  be  on  very  intimate  terms  with  Miss  Sarti.” 

“  With  Tina?  oh  yes ;  she  has  always  been  the  pet  of  the 
house,  you  know.  We  have  been  quite  brother  and  sister 
together.” 

“  Sisters  don’t  generally  color  so  very  deeply  when  their 
brothers  approach  them.” 

“  Does  she  color  ?  I  never  noticed  it.  But  she ’s  a  timid 
little  thing.” 

“  It  would  be  much  better  if  you  would  not  be  so  hypocriti¬ 
cal,  Captain  Wybrow.  I  am  confident  there  has  been  some 
flirtation  between  you.  Miss  Sarti,  in  her  position,  would 
never  speak  to  you  with  the  petulance  she  did  last  night,  if 
you  had  not  given  her  some  kind  of  claim  on  you.” 

“  My  dear  Beatrice,  now  do  be  reasonable ;  do  ask  yourself 
what  earthly  probability  there  is  that  I  should  think  of  flirting 
with  poor  little  Tina.  Is  there  anything  about  her  to  attract 
that  sort  of  attention  ?  She  is  more  child  than  woman.  One 
thinks  of  her  as  a  little  girl  to  be  petted  and  played  with.” 

“  Pray,  what  were  you  playing  at  with  her  yesterday  morn¬ 
ing,  when  I  came  in  unexpectedly,  and  her  cheeks  were  flushed, 
and  her  hands  trembling  ?  ” 

“  Yesterday  morning  ?  —  Oh,  I  remember.  You  know  I 
always  tease  her  about  Gilfil,  who  is  ovc”  head  and  ears  in 
love  with  her ;  and  she  is  angry  at  that,  —  perhaps,  because 
she  likes  him.  They  were  old  playfellows  years  before  I 
came  here,  and  Sir  Christopher  has  set  his  heart  on  theii 
marrying.” 

‘•'Captain  Wybrow,  you  are  very  false.  It  had  nothing  to 
do  with  Mr.  Gilfil  that  she  colored  last  night  when  you  leaned 
over  her  chair.  You  might  just  as  well  be  candid.  If  your 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


157 


own  mind  is  not  made  up,  pray  do  no  violence  to  yourself.  I 
am  quite  ready  to  give  way  to  Miss  Sarti’s  superior  attractions. 
Understand  that,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  you  are  perfectly 
at  liberty.  I  decline  any  share  in  the  affection  of  a  man  who 
forfeits  my  respect  by  duplicity.” 

In  saying  this  Miss  Assher  rose,  and  was  sweeping  haughtily 
out  of  the  room,  when  Captain  Wybrow  placed  himself  before 
her,  and  took  her  hand. 

“Dear,  dear  Beatrice,  be  patient ;  do  not  judge  me  so  rashly. 
Sit  down  again,  sweet, ”  he  added  in  a  pleading  voice,  pressing 
both  her  hands  between  his,  and  leading  her  back  to  the  sofa, 
where  he  sat  down  beside  her.  Miss  Assher  was  not  unwilling 
to  be  led  back  or  to  listen,  but  she  retained  her  cold  and 
haughty  expression. 

“  Can  you  not  trust  me,  Beatrice  ?  Can  you  not  believe  me, 
although  there  may  be  things  I  am  unable  to  explain  ?  ” 

“  Why  should  there  be  anything  you  are  unable  to  explain  ? 
An  honorable  man  will  not  be  placed  in  circumstances  which 
he  cannot  explain  to  the  woman  he  seeks  to  make  his  wife. 
He  will  not  ask  her  to  believe  that  he  acts  properly ;  he  will  let 
her  know  that  he  does  so.  Let  me  go,  sir.” 

She  attempted  to  rise,  but  he  passed  his  hand  round  her 
waist  and  detained  her. 

“Now,  Beatrice  dear,”  he  said  imploringly,  “can  you  not 
understand  that  there  are  things  a  man  does  n’t  like  to  talk 
about  —  secrets  that  he  must  keep  for  the  sake  of  others,  and 
not  for  his  own  sake  ?  Everything  that  relates  to  myself  you 
may  ask  me,  but  do  not  ask  me  to  tell  other  people’s  secrets. 
Don’t  you  understand  me  ?  ” 

“Oh  yes,”  said  Miss  Assher,  scornfully,  “I  understand. 
Whenever  you  make  love  to  a  woman  —  that  is  her  secret, 
which  you  are  bound  to  keep  for  her.  But  it  is  folly  to  be 
talking  in  this  way,  Captain  Wybrow.  It  is  very  plain  that 
there  is  some  relation  more  than  friendship  between  you  and 
Miss  Sarti.  Since  you  cannot  explain  that  relation,  there  is 
no  more  to  be  said  between  us.” 

“  Confound  it,  Beatrice !  you  ’ll  drive  me  mad.  Can  a 
fellow  help  a  girl’s  falling  in  love  with  him?  Such  things 


158 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


are  always  happening,  but  men  don’t  talk  of  them.  These 
fancies  will  spring  up  without  the  slightest  foundation,  espe¬ 
cially  when  a  woman  sees  few  people ;  they  die  out  again  when 
there  is  no  encouragement.  If  you  could  like  me,  you  ought 
not  to  be  surprised  that  other  people  can ;  you  ought  to  think 
the  better  of  them  for  it.” 

“  You  mean  to  say,  then,  that  Miss  Sarti  is  in  love  with  you 
without  your  ever  having  made  love  to  her.” 

“  Do  not  press  me  to  say  such  things,  dearest.  It  is  enough 
that  you  know  I  love  you  —  that  I  am  devoted  to  you.  Y ou 
naughty  queen,  you,  you  know  there  is  no  chance  for  any  one 
else  where  you  are.  You  are  only  tormenting  me,  to  prove 
your  power  over  me.  But  don’t  be  too  cruel ;  for  you  know 
they  say  I  have  another  heart-disease  besides  love,  and  these 
scenes  bring  on  terrible  palpitations.” 

“  But  I  must  have  an  answer  to  this  one  question,”  said 
Miss  Assher,  a  little  softened:  “has  there  been,  or  is  there, 
any  love  on  your  side  towards  Miss  Sarti  ?  I  have  nothing  to 
do  with  her  feelings,  but  I  have  a  right  to  know  yours.” 

“  I  like  Tina  very  much ;  who  would  not  like  such  a  little 
simple  thing  ?  You  would  not  wish  me  not  to  like  her  ?  But 
love  —  that  is  a  very  different  affair.  One  has  a  brotherly 
affection  for  such  a  woman  as  Tina ;  but  it  is  another  sort  of 
woman  that  one  loves.” 

These  last  words  were  made  doubly  significant  by  a  look  of 
tenderness,  and  a  kiss  imprinted  on  the  hand  Captain  Wybrow 
held  in  his.  Miss  Assher  was  conquered.  It  was  so  far  from 
probable  that  Anthony  should  love  that  pale  insignificant  little 
thing — so  highly  probable  that  he  should  adore  the  beautiful 
Miss  Assher.  On  the  whole,  it  was  rather  gratifying  that 
other  women  should  be  languishing  for  her  handsome  lover ; 
he  really  was  an  exquisite  creature.  Poor  Miss  Sarti !  Well, 
she  would  get  over  it. 

Captain  Wybrow  saw  his  advantage.  “  Come,  sweet  love,” 
he  continued,  “let  us  talk  no  more  about  unpleasant  things. 
You  will  keep  Tina’s  secret,  and  be  very  kind  to  her  —  won’t 
you  ?  —  for  my  sake.  But  you  will  ride  out  now  ?  See  what 
a  glorious  day  it  is  for  riding.  Let  me  order  the  horses.  I’m 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY.  IS9 

terribly  in  want  of  the  air.  Come,  give  me  one  forgiving  kiss, 
and  say  you  will  go.” 

Miss  Assher  complied  with  the  double  request,  and  then 
went  to  equip  herself  for  the  ride,  while  her  lover  walked  to 
the  stables. 


♦ 


CHAPTER  DL 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Gilfil,  who  had  a  heavy  weight  on  his 
mind,  had  watched  for  the  moment  when,  the  two  elder  ladies 
having  driven  out,  Caterina  would  probably  be  alone  in  Lady 
ChevereFs  sitting-room.  He  went  up  and  knocked  at  the 
door. 

“Come  in,”  said  the  sweet  mellow  voice,  always  thrilling  to 
him  as  the  sound  of  rippling  water  to  the  thirsty. 

He  entered  and  found  Caterina  standing  in  some  confusion, 
as  if  she  had  been  startled  from  a  reverie.  She  felt  relieved 
when  she  saw  it  was  Maynard,  but,  the  next  moment,  felt  a 
little  pettish  that  he  should  have  come  to  interrupt  and 
frighten  her. 

“  Oh,  it  is  you,  Maynard !  Do  you  want  Lady  Cheverel  ?  ” 

“No,  Caterina,”  he  answered  gravely;  “I  want  you.  I 
have  something  very  particular  to  say  to  you.  Will  you  let 
me  sit  down  with  you  for  half  an  hour  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  dear  old  preacher,”  said  Caterina,  sitting  down  with 
an  air  of  weariness  ;  “  what  is  it  ?  ” 

Mr.  Gilfil  placed  himself  opposite  to  her,  and  said,  “  I  hope 
you  will  not  be  hurt,  Caterina,  by  what  I  am  going  to  say  to 
you.  I  do  not  speak  from  any  other  feelings  than  real  affec¬ 
tion  and  anxiety  for  you.  I  put  everything  else  out  of  the 
question.  You  know  you  are  more  to  me  than  all  the  world  ; 
but  I  will  not  thrust  before  you  a  feeling  which  you  are 
unable  to  return.  I  speak  to  you  as  a  brother  —  the  old  May-> 
nard  that  used  to  scold  you  for  getting  your  fishing-line 


160 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


tangled  ten  years  ago.  You  will  not  believe  that  I  have  any 
*nean,  selfish  motive  in  mentioning  things  that  are  painful  to 
you  ?  ” 

“No;  I  know  you  are  very  good,”  said  Caterina,  ab¬ 
stractedly. 

“  From  what  I  saw  yesterday  evening,”  Mr.  Gilfil  went  on, 
hesitating  and  coloring  slightly,  “  I  am  led  to  fear  —  pray 
forgive  me  if  I  am  wrong,  Caterina — that  you  —  that  Cap¬ 
tain  Wybrow  is  base  enough  still  to  trifle  with  your  feelings, 
that  he  still  allows  himself  to  behave  to  you  as  no  man  ought 
who  is  the  declared  lover  of  another  woman.” 

“  What  do  you  mean,  Maynard  ?  ”  said  Caterina,  with  anger 
flashing  from  her  eyes.  “  Do  you  mean  that  I  let  him  make 
love  to  me  ?  What  right  have  you  to  think  that  of  me  ? 
What  do  you  mean  that  you  saw  yesterday  evening  ?  ” 

“  Do  not  be  angry,  Caterina.  I  don’t  suspect  you  of  doing 
wrong.  I  only  suspect  that  heartless  puppy  of  behaving  so  as 
to  keep  awake  feelings  in  you  that  not  only  destroy  your  own 
peace  of  mind,  but  may  lead  to  very  bad  consequences  with 
regard  to  others.  I  want  to  warn  you  that  Miss  Assher  has 
her  eyes  open  on  what  passes  between  you  and  Captain 
Wybrow,  and  I  feel  sure  she  is  getting  jealous  of  you.  Pray 
be  very  careful,  Caterina,  and  try  to  behave  with  politeness 
and  indifference  to  him.  You  must  see  by  this  time  that  he 
is  not  worth  the  feeling  you  have  given  him.  He ’s  more 
disturbed  at  his  pulse  beating  one  too  many  in  a  minute,  than 
at  all  the  misery  he  has  caused  you  by  his  foolish  trifling.” 

“  You  ought  not  to  speak  so  of  him,  Maynard,”  said  Cater¬ 
ina,  passionately.  “  He  is  not  what  you  think.  He  did  care 
for  me ;  he  did  love  me ;  only  he  wanted  to  do  what  his  uncle 
wished.” 

“  Oh,  to  be  sure  !  I  know  it  is  only  from  the  most  virtuous 
motives  that  he  does  what  is  convenient  to  himself.” 

Mr.  Gilfil  paused.  He  felt  that  he  was  getting  irritated, 
and  defeating  his  own  object.  Presently  he  continued  in  a 
calm  and  affectionate  tone. 

“  I  will  say  no  more  about  what  I  think  of  him,  Caterina. 
But  whether  he  loved  you  or  not,  his  position  now  with  Miss 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


161 


Assher  is  such  that  any  love  you  may  cherish  for  him  can 
bring  nothing  but  misery.  God  knows,  I  don’t  expect  you  to 
leave  off  loving  him  at  a  moment’s  notice.  Time  and  absence, 
and  trying  to  do  what  is  right,  are  the  only  cures.  If  it  were 
not  that  Sir  Christopher  and  Lady  Cheverel  would  be  dis¬ 
pleased  and  puzzled  at  your  wishing  to  leave  home  just  now, 
I  would  beg  you  to  pay  a  visit  to  my  sister.  She  and  her 
husband  are  good  creatures,  and  would  make  their  house  a 
home  to  you.  But  I  could  not  urge  the  thing  just  now  with¬ 
out  giving  a  special  reason  ;  and  what  is  most  of  all  to  be 
dreaded  is  the  raising  of  any  suspicion  in  Sir  Christopher’s 
mind  of  what  has  happened  in  the  past,  or  of  your  present 
feelings.  You  think  so  too,  don’t  you,  Tina  ?  ” 

Mr.  G-ilfil  paused  again,  but  Oaterina  said  nothing.  She 
was  looking  away  from  him,  out  of  the  window,  and  her  eyes 
were  filling  with  tears.  He  rose,  and,  advancing  a  little 
towards  her,  held  out  his  hand  and  said  — 

“  Forgive  me,  Caterina,  for  intruding  on  your  feelings  in  this 
way.  I  was  so  afraid  you  might  not  be  aware  how  Miss 
Assher  watched  you.  Remember,  I  entreat  you,  that  the 
peace  of  the  whole  family  depends  on  your  power  of  govern¬ 
ing  yourself.  Only  say  you  forgive  me  before  I  go.” 

“Dear,  good  Maynard,”  she  said,  stretching  out  her  little 
hand,  and  taking  two  of  his  large  fingers  in  her  grasp,  while 
her  tears  flowed  fast;  “I  am  very  cross  to  you.  But  my 
heart  is  breaking.  I  don’t  know  what  I  do.  Good-by.” 

He  stooped  down,  kissed  the  little  hand,  and  then  left  the 
room. 

“  The  cursed  scoundrel  !  ”  he  muttered  between  his  teeth, 
as  he  closed  the  door  behind  him.  “  If  it  were  not  for  Sir 
Christopher,  I  should  like  to  pound  him  into  paste  to  poison 
puppies  like  himself  I  ” 


m 


VOL.  IT. 


JCENWS  Ob'  CLiilKlCALi  LlJbK 


CHAPTER  X. 

That  evening  Captain  Wybrow,  returning  from  a  long  ride 
with  Miss  Assher,  went  up  to  his  dressing-room,  and  seated 
himself  with  an  air  of  considerable  lassitude  before  his  mirror. 
The  reflection  there  presented  of  his  exquisite  self  was  cer¬ 
tainly  paler  and  more  worn  than  usual,  and  might  excuse  the 
anxiety  with  which  he  first  felt  ms  pulse,  and  then  laid  his 
hand  on  his  heart. 

“  It ’s  a  devil  of  a  position  this  for  a  man  to  be  in,”  was  the 
train  of  his  thought,  as  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  glass, 
while  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  crossed  his  hands 
behind  his  head ;  “  between  two  jealous  women,  and  both  of 
them  as  ready  to  take  fire  as  tinder.  And  in  my  state  ct 
health,  too  !  I  should  be  glad  enough  to  run  away  from  th& 
whole  affair,  and  go  off  to  some  lotus-eating  place  or  other 
where  there  are  no  women,  or  only  women  who  are  too  sleepy 
to  be  jealous.  Here  am  I,  doing  nothing  to  please  myself, 
trying  to  do  the  best  thing  for  everybody  else,  and  all  the 
comfort  I  get  is  to  have  fire  shot  at  me  from  women’s  eyes, 
and  venom  spirted  at  me  from  women’s  tongues.  If  Beatrice 
takes  another  jealous  fit  into  her  head  — and  it’s  likely 
enough,  Tina  is  so  unmanageable  —  I  don’t  know  what  storm 
she  may  raise.  And  any  hitch  in  this  marriage,  especially  of 
that  sort,  might  be  a  fatal  business  for  the  old  gentleman.  I 
would  n  t  have  such  a  blow  fall  upon  him  for  a  great  deal, 
Besides,  a  man  must  be  married  some  time  in  his  life,  and  I 
could  hardly  do  better  than  marry  Beatrice.  She ’s  an  un¬ 
commonly  fine  woman,  and  I ’m  really  very  fond  of  her  ;  and 
as  I  shall  let  her  have  her  own  way,  her  temper  won’t  signify 
much.  I  wish  the  wedding  was  over  and  done  with,  for  this 
fuss  does  n’t  suit  me  at  all.  I  have  n’t  been  half  so  well  lately. 

I  hat  scene  about  Tina  this  morning  quite  upset  me.  Poor 
little  Tina  !  What  a  little  simpleton  it  was,  to  set  her  heart  on 


MR.  GILFtL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


163 


;ne  in  that  way  !  But  she  ought  to  see  how  impossible  it  is  that 
things  should  be  different.  If  she  would  but  understand  how 
kindly  I  feel  towards  her,  and  make  up  her  mind  to  look  on 
me  as  a  friend  ;  —  but  that  is  what  one  never  can  get  a  woman 
to  do.  Beatrice  is  very  good-natured  ;  I ’m  sure  she  would  be 
kind  to  the  little  thing.  It  would  be  a  great  comfort  if  Tina 
would  take  to  Gilfil,  if  it  were  only  in  anger  against  me.  He ’d 
make  her  a  capital  husband,  and  I  should  like  to  see  the  little 
grasshopper  happy.  If  I  had  been  in  a  different  position,  I 
would  certainly  have  married  her  myself ;  but  that  was  out  of 
the  question  with  my  responsibilities  to  Sir  Christopher.  I 
think  a  little  persuasion  from  my  uncle  would  bring  her  to 
accept  Gilfil ;  I  know  she  would  never  be  able  to  oppose  my ' 
uncle’s  wishes.  And  if  they  were  once  married,  she ’s  such 
a  loving  little  thing,  she  would  soon  be  billing  and  cooing 
with  him  as  if  she  had  never  known  me.  It  would  certainly 
be  the  best  thing  for  her  happiness  if  that  marriage  were 
hastened.  Heigho !  Those  are  lucky  fellows  that  have 
no  women  falling  in  love  with  them.  It  \s  a  confounded 
responsibility.” 

At  this  point  in  his  meditations  he  turned  his  head  a  little, 
so  as  to  get  a  three-quarter  view  of  his  face.  Clearly  it  was 
the  u  dono  inf  elice  della  bellezza  ”  that  laid  these  onerous  duties 
upon  him  —  an  idea  which  naturally  suggested  that  he  should 
ring  for  his  valet. 

For  the  next  few  days,  however,  there  was  such  a  cessation 
of  threatening  symptoms  as  to  allay  the  anxiety  both  of 
Captain  Wybrow  and  Mr.  Gilfil.  All  earthly  things  have 
their  lull :  even  on  nights  when  the  most  unappeasable 
wind  is  raging,  there  will  be  a  moment  of  stillness  before  it 
crashes  among  the  boughs  again,  and  storms  against  the 
windows,  and  howls  like  a  thousand  lost  demons  through  the 
key-holes. 

Miss  Assher  appeared  to  be  in  the  highest  good-humor; 
Captain  Wybrow  was  more  assiduous  than  usual,  and  was 
very  circumspect  in  his  behavior  to  Caterina,  on  whom  Miss 
Assher  bestowed  unwonted  attentions.  The  weather  was 
brilliant;  there  were  riding  excursions  in  the  mornings  and 


164  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

dinner-parties  in  the  evenings.  Consultations  in  the  library 
between  Sir  Christopher  and  Lady  Assher  seemed  to  be  lead¬ 
ing  to  a  satisfactory  result ;  and  it  was  understood  that  this 
visit  at  Cheverel  Manor  would  terminate  in  another  fortnight, 
when  the  preparations  for  the  wedding  would  be  carried  for¬ 
ward  with  all  despatch  at  harleigh.  The  Baronet  seemed 
every  day  more  radiant.  Accustomed  to  view  people  who 
entered  into  his  plans  by  the  pleasant  light  which  his  own 
strong  will  and  bright  hopefulness  were  always  casting  on 
the  future,  he  saw  nothing  but  personal  charms  and  promising 
domestic  qualities  in  Miss  Assher,  whose  quickness  of  eve  and 
taste  in  externals  formed  a  real  ground  of  sympathy  between 
her  and  Sir  Christopher.  Lady  Cheverel’s  enthusiasm  never 
rose  above  the  temperate  mark  of  calm  satisfaction,  and,  hav- 
ing  quite  hei  share  of  the  critical  acumen  which  characterizes 
the  mutual  estimates  of  the  fair  sex,  she  had  a  more  moderate 
opinion  of  Miss  Assher’s  qualities.  She  suspected  that  the 
fail  Beatrice  had  a  sharp  and  imperious  temper  ^  and  being  her¬ 
self,  on  principle  and  by  habitual  self-command,  the  most  defer¬ 
ential  of  wives,  she  noticed  with  disapproval  Miss  Assher’s 
occasional  air  of  authority  towards  Captain  Wybrow.  A 
proud  woman  who  has  learned  to  submit,  carries  all  her  pride 
to  the  reinforcement  of  her  submission,  and  looks  down  with 
severe  superiority  on  all  feminine  assumption  as  “  unbecom- 
ing.”  Lady  Cheverel,  however,  confined  her  criticisms  to  the 
privacy  of  her  own  thoughts,  and,  with  a  reticence  which  I 
fear  may  seem  incredible,  did  not  use  them  as  a  means  of 
disturbing  her  husband's  complacency. 

And  Caterina  ?  How  did  she  pass  these  sunny  autumn 
days,  in  which  the  skies  seemed  to  be  smiling  on  the  family 
gladness  ?  To  her  the  change  in  Miss  Assher’s  manner  was 
unaccountable.  Those  compassionate  attentions,  those  smil¬ 
ing  condescensions,  were  torture  to  Caterina,  who  was  con¬ 
stantly  tempted  to  repulse  them  with  anger.  She  thought, 

“Perhaps  Anthony  has  told  her  to  be  kind  to  poor  Tina.” 

This  was  an  insult.  He  ought  to  have  known  that  the  mere 

presence  of  Miss  Assher  was  painful  to  her,  that  Miss  Assher’s 
smiles  scorched  her,  that  Miss  Assher’s  kind  words  were  like 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


165 


poison  stings  inflaming  her  to  madness.  And  he  —  Anthony 
—  he  was  evidently  repenting  of  the  tenderness  he  had  been 
betrayed  into  that  morning  in  the  drawing-room.  He  was 
cold  and  distant  and  civil  to  her,  to  ward  off  Beatrice’s  sus¬ 
picions,  and  Beatrice  could  be  so  gracious  now,  because  she 
was  sure  of  Anthony’s  entire  devotion.  Well !  and  so  it 
ought  to  be  —  and  she  ought  not  to  wish  it  otherwise.  And 
yet  —  oh,  he  ivcts  cruel  to  her.  She  could  never  have  behaved 
so  to  him.  To  make  her  love  him  so  —  to  speak  such  tender 
words  —  to  give  her  such  caresses,  and  then  to  behave  as  if 
such  things  had  never  been.  He  had  given  her  the  poison 
that  seemed  so  sweet  while  she  was  drinking  it,  and  now  ifc 
was  in  her  blood,  and  she  was  helpless. 

With  this  tempest  pent  up  in  her  bosom,  the  poor  child 
went  up  to  her  room  every  night,  and  there  it  all  burst  forth. 
There,  with  loud  whispers  and  sobs,  restlessly  pacing  up  and 
down,  lying  on  the  hard  floor,  courting  cold  and  weariness, 
she  told  to  the  pitiful  listening  night  the  anguish  which  she 
could  pour  into  no  mortal  ear.  But  always  sleep  came  at  last, 
and  always  in  the  morning  the  reactive  calm  that  enabled  her 
to  live  through  the  day. 

It  is  amazing  how  long  a  young  frame  will  go  on  battling 
with  this  sort  of  secret  wretchedness,  and  yet  show  no  traces 
of  the  conflict  for  any  but  sympathetic  eyes.  The  very  deli¬ 
cacy  of  Caterina’s  usual  appearance,  her  natural  paleness  and 
habitually  quiet  mouse-like  ways,  made  any  symptoms  of 
fatigue  and  suffering  less  noticeable.  And  her  singing  —  the 
one  thing  in  which  she  ceased  to  be  passive,  and  became 
prominent  —  lost  none  of  its  energy.  She  herself  sometimes 
wondered  how  it  was  that,  whether  she  felt  sad  or  angry, 
crushed  with  the  sense  of  Anthony’s  indifference,  or  burning 
with  impatience  under  Miss  Assher’s  attentions,  it  was  always 
a  relief  to  her  to  sing.  Those  full  deep  notes  she  sent  forth 
seemed  to  be  lifting  the  pain  from  her  heart  —  seemed  to  be 
carrying  away  the  madness  from  her  brain. 

Thus  Lady  Cheverel  noticed  no  change  in  Caterina,  and  it 
was  only  Mr.  Gilfil  who  discerned  with  anxiety  the  feverish 
spot  that  sometimes  rose  on  her  cheek,  the  deepening  violet 


166 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


tint  under  her  eyes,  and  tlie  strange  absent  glance,  the  un¬ 
healthy  glitter  of  the  beautiful  eyes  themselves. 

But  those  agitated  nights  were  producing  a  more  fatal  effect 
than  was  represented  by  these  slight  outward  changes. 


♦ 


CHAPTER  XL 

The  following  Sunday,  the  morning  being  rainy,  it  was 
determined  that  the  family  should  not  go  to  Cumbermoor 
Church  as  usual,  but  that  Mr.  Gilfil,  who  had  only  an  after¬ 
noon  service  at  his  curacy,  should  conduct  the  morning  service 
in  the  chapel. 

Just  before  the  appointed  hour  of  eleven,  Caterina  came 
down  into  the  drawing-room,  looking  so  unusually  ill  as  to 
call  forth  an  anxious  inquiry  from  Lady  Cheverel,  who,  on 
learning  that  she  had  a  severe  headache,  insisted  that  she 
should  not  attend  service,  and  at  once  packed  her  up  comfort¬ 
ably  on  a  sofa  near  the  fire,  putting  a  volume  of  Tillotson’s 
Sermons  into  her  hands — as  appropriate  reading,  if  Caterina 
should  feel  equal  to  that  means  of  edification. 

Excellent  medicine  for  the  mind  are  the  good  Archbishop’s 
sermons,  but  a  medicine,  unhappily,  not  suited  to  Tina  s  case. 
She  sat  with  the  book  open  on  her  knees,  her  dark  eyes  fixed 
vacantly  on  the  portrait  of  that  handsome  Lady  Cheverel, 
wife  of  the  notable  Sir  Anthony.  She  gazed  at  the  picture 
without  thinking  of  it,  and  the  fair  blond  .lame  seemed  to 
look  down  on  her  with  that  benignant  unconcern,  that  mild 
wonder,  with  which  happy  self-possessed  women  are  apt  to 
look  down  on  their  agitated  and  weaker  sisters. 

Caterina  was  thinking  of  the  near  future  —  of  the  wedding 
that  was  soon  to  come  — of  all  she  would  have  to  live  through 
in  the  next  months. 

“I  wish  l  could  be  \rery  ill,  and  die  before  then,”  she 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


167 


thought.  “  When  people  get  very  ill,  they  don’t  mind  about 
things.  Poor  Patty  Richards  looked  so  happy  when  she  was 
in  a  decline.  She  did  n’t  seem  to  care  any  more  about  her 
lover  that  she  was  engaged  to  be  married  to,  and  she  liked  the 
smell  of  the  flowers  so,  that  I  used  to  take  her.  Oh,  if  I 
could  but  like  anything  —  if  I  could  but  think  about  anything 
else !  If  these  dreadful  feelings  would  go  away,  I  would  n’t 
mind  about  not  being  happy.  I  wouldn’t  want  anything  — 
and  I  could  do  what  would  please  Sir  Christopher  and  Lady 
Cheverel.  But  when  that  rage  and  anger  comes  into  me,  I 
don’t  know  what  to  do.  I  don’t  feel  the  ground  under  me ; 
I  only  feel  my  head  and  heart  beating,  and  it  seems  as  if  I 
must  do  something  dreadful.  Oh !  I  wonder  if  any  one  ever 
felt  like  me  before.  I  must  be  very  wicked.  But  God  will 
have  pity  on  me  ;  He  knows  all  I  have  to  bear.” 

In  this  way  the  time  wore  on  till  Tina  heard  the  sound  of 
voices  along  the  passage,  and  became  conscious  that  the  vol¬ 
ume  of  Tillotson  had  slipped  on  the  floor.  She  had  only  just 
picked  it  up,  and  seen  with  alarm  that  the  pages  were  bent, 
when  Lady  Assher,  Beatrice,  and  Captain  Wybrow  entered, 
all  with  that  brisk  and  cheerful  air  which  a  sermon  is  often 
observed  to  produce  when  it  is  quite  finished. 

Lady  Assher  at  once  came  and  seated  herself  by  Caterina. 
Her  ladyship  had  been  considerably  refreshed  by  a  doze,  and 
was  in  great  force  for  monologue. 

“Well,  my  dear  Miss  Sarti,  and  how  do  you  feel  now ?  —  a 
little  better,  I  see.  I  thought  you  would  be,  sitting  quietly 
here.  These  headaches,  now,  are  all  from  weakness.  You 
must  not  over-exert  yourself,  and  you  must  take  bitters.  I 
used  to  have  just  the  same  sort  of  headaches  when  I  was  your 
age,  and  old  Dr.  Samson  used  to  say  to  my  mother,  ‘  Madam, 
what  your  daughter  suffers  from  is  weakness.’  He  was  such  a 
curious  old  man,  was  Dr.  Samson.  But  I  wish  you  could  have 
heard  the  sermon  this  morning.  Such  an  excellent  sermon  I 
It  was  about  the  ten  virgins  :  five  of  them  were  foolish,  and 
five  were  clever,  you  know ;  and  Mr.  Gilfil  explained  all  that. 
What  a  very  pleasant  young  man  he  is  !  so  very  quiet  and 
agreeable,  and  such  a  good  hand  at  whist.  I  wish  we  had  him 


168 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


at  Farleigh.  Sir  John  would  have  liked  him  beyond  any¬ 
thing  ;  he  is  so  good-tempered  at  cards,  and  he  was  such  a 
man  for  cards,  was  Sir  John.  And  our  rector  is  a  very  irri¬ 
table  man  ;  he  can’t  bear  to  lose  his  money  at  cards.  I  don't 
think  a  clergyman  ought  to  mind  about  losing  his  money  ;  do 
you  ?  —  do  you  now  ?  ” 

“Oh,  pray,  Lady  Assher,”  interposed  Beatrice,  in  her  usual 
tone  of  superiority,  “do  not  weary  poor  Caterina  with  such 
uninteresting  questions.  Your  head  seems  very  bad  still, 
dear,”  she  continued,  in  a  condoling  tone,  to  Caterina;  “do 
take  my  vinaigrette,  and  keep  it  in  your  pocket.  It  will  per¬ 
haps  refresh  you  now  and  then.” 

“  No,  thank  you,”  answered  Caterina ;  “  I  will  not  take  it 
away  from  you.” 

“  Indeed,  dear,  I  never  use  it ;  you  must  take  it,”  Miss 
Assher  persisted,  holding  it  close  to  Tina’s  hand.  Tina  col¬ 
ored  deeply,  pushed  the  vinaigrette  away  with  some  impa¬ 
tience,  and  said,  “Thank  you,  I  never  use  those  things.  I 
don’t  like  vinaigrettes.” 

Miss  Assher  returned  the  vinaigrette  to  her  pocket  in  sur¬ 
prise  and  haughty  silence,  and  Captain  Wybrow,  who  had 
looked  on  in  some  alarm,  said  hastily,  “  See  !  it  is  quite  bright 
out  of  doors  now.  There  is  time  for  a  walk  before  luncheon. 
Come,  Beatrice,  put  on  your  hat  and  cloak,  and  let  us  have 
half  an  hour’s  walk  qn  the  gravel.” 

“Yes,  do,  my  dear,”  said  Lady  Assher,  “and  I  will  go  and 
see  if  Sir  Christopher  is  having  his  walk  in  the  gallery.” 

As  soon  as  the  door  had  closed  behind  the  two  ladies,  Cap¬ 
tain  Wybrow,  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  turned  towards 
Caterina,  and  said  in  a  tone  of  earnest  remonstrance,  “My 
dear  Caterina,  let  me  beg  of  you  to  exercise  more  control  over 
your  feelings ;  you  are  really  rude  to  Miss  Assher,  and  I  can 
see  that  she  is  quite  hurt.  Consider  how  strange  your  behavior 
must  appear  to  her.  She  will  wonder  what  can  be  the  cause  of 
it.  Come,  dear  Tina,”  he  added,  approaching  her,  and  attempt¬ 
ing  to  take  her  hand ;  “  for  your  own  sake  let  me  entreat  you 
to  receive  her  attentions  politely.  She  really  feels  very  kindly 
towards  you,  and  I  should  be  so  happy  to  see  you  friends  ” 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


J  69 


Caterina  was  already  in  such  a  state  of  diseased  suscepti¬ 
bility  that  the  most  innocent  words  from  Captain  Wybrow 
would  have  been  irritating  to  her,  as  the  whirr  of  the  most 
delicate  wing  will  afflict  a  nervous  patient.  But  this  tone  of 
benevolent  remonstrance  was  intolerable.  He  had  inflicted  a 
great  and  unrepented  injury  on  her,  and  now  he  assumed  an 
air  of  benevolence  towards  her.  This  was  a  new  outrage.  His 
profession  of  good-will  was  insolence. 

Caterina  snatched  away  her  hand  and  said  indignantly, 
“  Leave  me  to  myself,  Captain  Wybrow  !  I  do  not  disturb 
you.” 

“  Caterina,  why  will  you  be  so  violent  —  so  unjust  to  me  ? 
It  is  for  you  that  I  feel  anxious.  Miss  Assher  has  already 
noticed  how  strange  your  behavior  is  both  to  her  and  me,  and 
it  puts  me  into  a  very  difficult  position.  What  can  I  say  to 
her  ?  ” 

“  Say  ?  ”  Caterina  burst  forth  with  intense  bitterness,  rising, 
and  moving  towards  the  door ;  “  say  that  I  am  a  poor  silly 
girl,  and  have  fallen  in  love  with  you,  and  am  jealous  of  her ; 
but  that  you  have  never  had  any  feeling  but  pity  for  me  —  you 
have  never  behaved  with  anything  more  than  friendliness  to 
me.  Tell  her  that,  and  she  will  think  all  the  better  of  you.” 

Tina  uttered  this  as  the  bitterest  sarcasm  her  ideas  would 
furnish  her  with,  not  having  the  faintest  suspicion  that  the 
sarcasm  derived  any  of  its  bitterness  from  truth.  Underneath 
all  her  sense  of  wrong,  which  was  rather  instinctive  than  re* 
flective  — underneath  all  the  madness  of  her  jealousy,  and  her 
ungovernable  impulses  of  resentment  and  vindictiveness—* 
underneath  all  this  scorching  passion  there  were  still  left 
some  hidden  crystal  dews  of  trust,  of  self-reproof,  of  belief 
that  Anthony  was  trying  to  do  the  right.  Love  had  not  all 
gone  to  feed  the  fires  of  hatred.  Tina  still  trusted  that  An¬ 
thony  felt  more  for  her  than  he  seemed  to  feel ;  she  was  still 
far  from  suspecting  him  of  a  wrong  which  a  woman  resents 
even  more  than  inconstancy.  And  she  threw  out  this  taunt 
simply  as  the  most  intense  expression  she  could  find  for  the 
anger  of  the  moment. 

As  she  stood  nearly  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  her  little 


170  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

body  trembling  under  the  shock  of  passions  too  strong  for  it, 
her  very  lips  pale,  and  her  eyes  gleaming,  the  door  opened, 
and  Miss  Assher  appeared,  tall,  blooming,  and  splendid,  in  her 
walking  costume.  As  she  entered,  her  face  wore  the  smile 
appropriate  to  the  exits  and  entrances  of  a  young  lady  who 
feels  that  her  presence  is  an  interesting  fact;  but  the  next 
moment  she  looked  at  Caterina  with  grave  surprise,  and  then 
threw  a  glance  of  angry  suspicion  at  Captain  Wybrow,  who 
wore  an  air  of  weariness  and  vexation. 

“  PeriiaPs  y°u  are  too  much  engaged  to  walk  out,  Captain 
Wybrow  ?  I  will  go  alone.” 

“  no>  1  am  coming,”  he  answered,  hurrying  towards  her, 
and  leading  her  out  of  the  room ;  leaving  poor  Caterina  to  feel 

all  the  reaction  of  shame  and  self-reproach  after  her  outburst 
of  passion. 


CHAPTER  XIL 


Pray,  what  is  likely  to  be  the  next  scene  in  the  drama 
between  you  and  Miss  Sarti  ?  ”  said  Miss  Assher  to  Captain 
Wybrow  as  soon  as  they  were  out  on  the  gravel.  “It  would 
be  agreeable  to  have  some  idea  of  what  is  coming.” 

Captain  Wybrow  was  silent.  He  felt  out  of  humor,  wearied, 
annoyed.  There  come  moments  when  one  almost  determines 
never  again  to  oppose  anything  but  dead  silence  to  an  angry 
woman.  “Now  then,  confound  it,”  he  said  to  himself,  “I’m 
going  to  be  battered  on  the  other  flank.”  He  looked  reso¬ 
lutely  at  the  horizon,  with  something  more  like  a  frown  on  his 
xace  than  Beatrice  had  ever  seen  there. 

After  a  pause  of  two  or  three  minutes,  she  continued  in 
a  still  haughtier  tone,  “I  suppose  you  are  aware,  Captain 

Wybrow,  that  I  expect  an  explanation  of  what  I  have  iust 

seen.”  J 

“  I  have  no  explanation,  my  dear  Beatrice,”  he  answered  at 


171 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 

/ 

last,  making  a  strong  effort  over  himself,  “  except  what  I  have 
already  given  you,  I  hoped  you  would  never  recur  to  the 
subject.” 

“Your  explanation,  however,  is  very  far  from  satisfactory. 
I  can  only  say  that  the  airs  Miss  Sarti  thinks  herself  entitled 
to  put  on  towards  you,  are  quite  incompatible  with  your  posi¬ 
tion  as  regards  me.  And  her  behavior  to  me  is  most  insult¬ 
ing.  I  shall  certainly  not  stay  in  the  house  under  such 
circumstances,  and  mamma  must  state  the  reasons  to  Sir 
Christopher.” 

“  Beatrice,”  said  Captain  Wybrow,  his  irritation  giving  way 
to  alarm,  “I  beseech  you  to  be  patient,  and  exercise  your  good 
feelings  in  this  affair.  It  is  very  painful,  1  know,  but  I  am 
sure  you  would  be  grieved  to  injure  poor  Caterina  —  to  bring 
down  my  uncle’s  anger  upon  her.  Consider  what  a  poor  little 
dependent  thing  she  is.” 

“  It  is  very  adroit  of  you  to  make  these  evasions,  but  do  not 
suppose  that  they  deceive  me.  Miss  Sarti  would  never  dare 
to  behave  to  you  as  she  does,  if  you  had  not  flirted  with  her, 
or  made  love  to  her.  I  suppose  she  considers  your  engagement 
to  me  a  breach  of  faith  to  her.  I  am  much  obliged  to  you, 
certainly,  for  making  me  Miss  Sarti’s  rival.  You  have  told 
me  a  falsehood,  Captain  Wybrow.” 

“  Beatrice,  I  solemnly  declare  to  you  that  Caterina  is  noth¬ 
ing  more  to  me  than  a  girl  I  naturally  feel  kindly  to  —  as  a 
favorite  of  my  uncle’s,  and  a  nice  little  thing  enough.  I  should 
be  glad  to  see  her  married  to  Gilfil  to-morrow ;  that ’s  a  good 
proof  that  I ’m  not  in  love  with  her,  I  should  think.  As  to 
the  past,  I  may  have  shown  her  little  attentions,  which  she 
has  exaggerated  and  misinterpreted.  What  man  is  not  liable 
to  that  sort  of  thing  ?  ” 

“  But  what  can  she  found  her  behavior  on  ?  What  had  she 
been  saying  to  you  this  morning  to  make  her  tremble  and  turn 
pale  in  that  way  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  I  don’t  know.  I  just  said  something  about  her  be¬ 
having  peevishly.  With  that  Italian  blood  of  hers,  there ’s 
no  knowing  how  she  may  take  what  one  says.  She ’s  a  fieroe 
little  thing,  though  she  seems  so  quiet  generally.” 


172 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


“  But  she  ought  to  be  made  to  know  how  unbecoming  and  in- 
delicate  her  conduct  is.  For  my  part,  I  wonder  Lady  Cheverel 
has  not  noticed  her  short  answers  and  the  airs  she  puts  on.” 

“  Let  me  beg  of  you,  Beatrice,  not  to  hint  anything  of  the 
kind  to  Lady  Cheverel.  You  must  have  observed  how  strict 
my  aunt  is.  It  never  enters  her  head  that  a  girl  can  be  in 
love  with  a  man  who  has  not  made  her  an  offer.” 

“Well,  I  shall  let  Miss  Sarti  know  myself  that  I  have 
observed  her  conduct.  It  will  be  only  a  charity  to  her.” 

“Nay,  dear,  that  will  be  doing  nothing  but  harm.  Caterina’s 
temper  is  peculiar.  The  best  thing  you  can  do  will  be  to  leave 
her  to  herself  as  much  as  possible.  It  will  all  wear  off.  I ’ve 
no  doubt  she  ’ll  be  married  to  Gilfil  before  long.  Girls’  fancies, 
are  easily  diverted  from  one  object  to  another.  By  Jove,  whal 
a  rate  my  heart  is  galloping  at !  These  confounded  palpitations 
get  worse  instead  of  better.” 

Thus  ended  the  conversation,  so  far  as  it  concerned  Cater- 
ina,  not  without  leaving  a  distinct  resolution  in  Captain 
Wybrow’s  mind  —  a  resolution  carried  into  effect  the  next 
day,  when  he  was  in  the  library  with  Sir  Christopher  for  the 
purpose  of  discussing  some  arrangements  about  the  approach¬ 
ing  marriage.  * 

“  By  the  bye,”  he  said  carelessly,  when  the  business  came  to 
a  pause,  and  he  was  sauntering  round  the  room  with  his  hands 
in  his  coat-pockets,  surveying  the  backs  of  the  books  that  lined 
the  walls,  “  when  is  the  wedding  between  Gilfil  and  Caterina 
to  come  off,  sir  ?  I ’ve  a  fellow-feeling  for  a  poor  devil  so 
many  fathoms  deep  in  love  as  Maynard.  Why  should  n’t 
their  marriage  happen  as  soon  as  ours  ?  I  suppose  he  has 
come  to  an  understanding  with  Tina  ?  ” 

“  Why,”  said  Sir  Christopher,  “  I  did  think  of  letting  the 
thing  be  until  old  Crichley  died ;  he  can’t  hold  out  very  long, 
poor  fellow ;  and  then  Maynard  might  have  entered  into 
matrimony  and  the  Rectory  both  at  once.  But,  after  all,  that 
really  is  no  good  reason  for  waiting.  There  is  no  need  for 
them  to  leave  the  Manor  when  they  are  married.  The  little 
monkey  is  quite  old  enough.  It  would  be  pretty  to  see  her  a 
matron,  with  a  baby  about  the  size  of  a  kitten  in  her  arms.” 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


ITS 

ee  I  think  that  system  of  waiting  is  always  bad.  And  if  I 
can  further  any  settlement  you  would  like  to  make  on  Cater¬ 
ina,  I  shall  be  delighted  to  carry  out  your  wishes.” 

“  My  dear  boy,  that ’s  very  good  of  you  ;  but  Maynard  will 
have  enough ;  and  from  what  I  know  of  him  —  and  I  know  him 
well  —  I  think  he  would  rather  provide  for  Caterina  himself. 
However,  now  you  have  put  this  matter  into  my  head,  I  begin 
to  blame  myself  for  not  having  thought  of  it  before.  I’ve 
been  so  wrapt  up  in  Beatrice  and  you,  you  rascal,  that  I  had 
really  forgotten  poor  Maynard.  And  he ’s  older  than  you  — 
it ’s  high  time  he  was  settled  in  life  as  a  family  man.” 

Sir  Christopher  paused,  took  snuff  in  a  meditative  manner, 
and  presently  said,  more  to  himself  than  to  Anthony,  who  was 
humming  a  tune  at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  “  Yes,  yes.  It  will 
be  a  capital  plan  to  finish  off  all  our  family  business  at  once.” 

Riding  out  with  Miss  Assher  the  same  morning,  Captain 
Wybrow  mentioned  to  her  incidentally,  that  Sir  Christopher 
was  anxious  to  bring  about  the  wedding  between  Gilfil  and 
Caterina  as  soon  as  possible,  and  that  he,  for  his  part,  should 
do  all  he  could  to  further  the  affair.  It  would  be  the  best 
thing  in  the  world  for  Tina,  in  whose  welfare  he  was  really 
interested. 

With  Sir  Christopher  there  was  never  any  long  interval 
between  purpose  and  execution.  He  made  up  his  mind 
promptly,  and  he  acted  promptly.  On  rising  from  luncheon, 
he  said  to  Mr.  Gilfil,  “Come  with  me  into  the  library,  May¬ 
nard.  I  want  to  have  a  word  with  you.” 

*  Maynard,  my  boy,”  he  began,  as  soon  as  they  were  seated, 
tapping  his  snuff-box,  and  looking  radiant  at  the  idea  of  the 
unexpected  pleasure  he  was  about  to  give,  “  why  should  n’t  we 
have  two  happy  couples  instead  of  one,  before  the  autumn  is 
over,  eh  ?  ” 

“Eh?”  he  repeated,  after  a  moment’s  pause,  lengthening 
out  the  monosyllable,  taking  a  slow  pinch,  and  looking  up  at 
Maynard  with  a  sly  smile. 

“I’m  not  quite  sure  that  I  understand  you,  sir,”  answered 
Mr.  Gilfil,  who  felt  annoyed  at  the  consciousness  that  he  was 
turning  pale 


174 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


"Not  understand  me,  you  rogue?  You  know  very  well 
whose  happiness  lies  nearest  to  my  heart  after  Anthony’s. 
You  know  you  let  me  into  your  secrets  long  ago,  so  there  *s  no 
confession  to  make.  Tina ’s  quite  old  enough  to  be  a  grave 
little  wife  now ;  and  though  the  Rectory ’s  not  ready  for  you, 
that ’s  no  matter.  My  lady  and  I  shall  feel  all  the  more  com¬ 
fortable  for  having  you  with  us.  We  should  miss  our  little 
singing-bird  if  we  lost  her  all  at  once.” 

Mr.  Gilfil  felt  himself  in  a  painfully  difficult  position.  He 
dreaded  that  Sir  Christopher  should  surmise  or  discover  the 
true  state  of  Caterina’s  feelings,  and  yet  he  was  obliged  to 
make  those  feelings  the  ground  of  his  reply. 

"  My  dear  sir,”  he  at  last  said  with  some  effort,  "  you  will 
not  suppose  that  I  am  not  alive  to  your  goodness  —  that  I  am 
not  grateful  for  your  fatherly  interest  in  my  happiness ;  but 
I  fear  that  Caterina’s  feelings  towards  me  are  not  such  as  to 
warrant  the  hope  that  she  would  accept  a  proposal  of  marriage 
from  me.” 

"  Have  you  ever  asked  her  ?  ” 

"No,  sir.  But  we  often  know  these  things  too  well  without 
asking.” 

“  Pooh,  pooh  !  the  little  monkey  must  love  you.  Why,  you 
were  her  first  playfellow ;  and  I  remember  she  used  to  cry  if 
you  cut  your  finger.  Besides,  she  has  always  silently  admitted 
that  you  were  her  lover.  You  know  I  have  always  spoken  of 
you  to  her  in  that  light.  I  took  it  for  granted  you  had  settled 
the  business  between  yourselves ;  so  did  Anthony.  Anthony 
thinks  she ’s  in  love  with  you,  and  he  has  young  eyes,  which 
are  apt  enough  to  see  clearly  in  these  matters.  He  was  talk¬ 
ing  to  me  about  it  this  morning,  and  pleased  me  very  much  by 
the  friendly  interest  he  showed  in  you  and  Tina.” 

The  blood  —  more  than  was  wanted  —  rushed  back  to  Mr. 
Gilfil’s  face ;  he  set  his  teeth  and  clenched  his  hands  in  the 
effort  to  repress  a  burst  of  indignation.  Sir  Christopher  noticed 
the  flush,  but  thought  it  indicated  the  fluctuation  of  hope  and 
fear  about  Caterina.  He  went  on  — 

"You  ’re  too  modest  by  half,  Maynard.  A  fellow  who  can 
take  a  five-barred  gate  as  you  can,  ought  not  to  be  so  faint- 


MR.  GTLFIL’S  LOVE-STORY.  175 

nearted.  If  you  can’t  speak  to  her  yourself,  leave  me  to  talk 
to  her.” 

“Sir  Christopher,”  said  poor  Maynard  earnestly,  “I  shall 
really  feel  it  the  greatest  kindness  you  can  possibly  show  me 
not  to  mention  this  subject  to  Caterina  at  present.  I  think 
such  a  proposal,  made  prematurely,  might  only  alienate  her 
from  me.” 

Sir  Christopher  was  getting  a  little  displeased  at  this  con* 
tradiction.  His  tone  became  a  little  sharper  as  he  said,  “Have 
you  any  grounds  to  state  for  this  opinion,  beyond  your  general 
notion  that  Tina  is  not  enough  in  love  with  you  ?  ” 

“  I  can  state  none  beyond  my  own  very  strong  impression 
that  she  does  not  love  me  well  enough  to  marry  me.” 

“  Then  I  think  that  ground  is  worth  nothing  at  all.  I  am 
tolerably  correct  in  my  judgment  of  people ;  and  if  I  am  not 
very  much  deceived  in  Tina,  she  looks  forward  to  nothing  else 
but  to  your  being  her  husband.  Leave  me  to  manage  the 
matter  as  I  think  best.  You  may  rely  on  me  that  I  shall  do 
no  harm  to  your  cause,  Maynard.” 

Mr.  Gilfil,  afraid  to  say  more,  yet  wretched  in  the  prospect 
of  what  might  result  from  Sir  Christopher’s  determination, 
quitted  the  library  in  a  state  of  mingled  indignation  against 
Captain  Wybrow,  and  distress  for  himself  and  Caterina.  What 
would  she  think  of  him  ?  She  might  suppose  that  he  had  insti¬ 
gated  or  sanctioned  Sir  Christopher’s  proceeding.  He  should 
perhaps  not  have  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her  on  the 
subject  in  time  ;  he  would  write  her  a  note,  and  carry  it  up  to 
her  room  after  the  dressing-bell  had  rung.  No  ;  that  would 
agitate  her,  and  unfit  her  for  appearing  at  dinner,  and  passing 
the  evening  calmly.  He  would  defer  it  till  bed-time.  After 
prayers,  he  contrived  to  lead  her  back  to  the  drawing-room, 
and  to  put  a  letter  in  her  hand.  She  carried  it  up  to  her  own 
room,  wondering,  and  there  read  — 

Dear  Caterina,  — Do  not  suspect  for  a  moment  that  anything 
Sir  Christopher  may  say  to  you  about  our  marriage  has  been  prompted 
by  me.  I  have  done  all  I  dare  do  10  dissuade  him  from  urging  the 
subject,  and  have  only  been  prevented  from  speaking  more  strongly 
by  the  dread  of  provoking  questions  which  I  could  not  answer  without 


176 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


causing  you  fresh  misery.  I  write  this,  both  to  prepare  you  for  any. 
thing  Sir  Christopher  may  say,  and  to  assure  you  — but  I  hope  you 
already  believe  it  —  that  your  feelings  are  sacred  to  me.  I  would 
rather  part  with  the  dearest  hope  of  my  life  than  be  the  means  of 
adding  to  your  trouble. 

It  is  Captain  Wybrow  who  has  prompted  Sir  Christopher  to  take 
up  the  subject  at  this  moment.  I  tell  you  this,  to  save  you  from  hear¬ 
ing  it  suddenly  when  you  are  with  Sir  Christopher.  You  see  now  what 
sort  of  stuff  that  dastard’s  heart  is  made  of  Trust  in  me  always, 
dearest  Caterina,  as  —  whatever  may  come  —  your  faithful  friend  and 
brother, 

Maynard  Gilfil. 

Caterina  was  at  first  too  terribly  stung  by  the  words  about 
Captain  Wybrow  to  think  of  the  difficulty  which  threatened 
her — to  think  either  of  what  Sir  Christopher  would  say  to 
her,  or  of  what  she  could  say  in  reply.  Bitter  sense  of  injury, 
fierce  resentment,  left  no  room  for  fear.  With  the  poisoned 
garment  upon  him,  the  victim  writhes  under  the  torture  —  he 
has  no  thought  of  the  coming  death. 

Anthony  could  do  this !  —  Of  this  there  could  be  no  expla¬ 
nation  but  the  coolest  contempt  for  her  feelings,  the  basest 
sacrifice  of  all  the  consideration  and  tenderness  he  owed  her 
to  the  ease  of  his  position  with  Miss  Assher.  No.  It  was 
worse  than  that:  it  was  deliberate,  gratuitous  cruelty.  He 
wanted  to  show  her  how  he  despised  her;  he  wanted  to  make 
her  feel  her  folly  in  having  ever  believed  that  he  loved  her. 

The  last  crystal  drops  of  trust  and  tenderness,  she  thought, 
were  dried  up ;  all  was  parched,  fiery  hatred.  Now  she  need 
no  longer  check  her  resentment  by  the  fear  of  doing  him  an 
injustice ;  he  had  trifled  with  her,  as  Maynard  had  said ;  he 
had  been  reckless  of  her ;  and  now  he  was  base  and  cruel. 
She  had  cause  enough  for  her  bitterness  and  anger  j  they  were 
not  so  wicked  as  they  had  seemed  to  her. 

As  these  thoughts  were  hurrying  after  each  other  like  so 
many  sharp  throbs  of  fevered  pain,  she  shed  no  tear.  She 
paced  restlessly  to  and  fro,  as  her  habit  was  —  her  hands 
clenched,  her  eyes  gleaming  fiercely  and  wandering  uneasily, 
as  if  in  search  of  something  on  which  she  might  throw  herself 
like  a  tigress. 


MR.  GILFIL’S  EOVE-STGRY.  177 

“If  1  could  speak  to  him,”  she  whispered,  “  and  tell  him  1 
hate  him,  I  despise  him,  I  loathe  him  !  ” 

Suddenly,  as  if  a  new  thought  had  struck  her,  she  drew  a 
key  from  her  pocket,  and  unlocking  an  inlaid  desk  where  she 
stored  up  her  keepsakes,  took  from  it  a  small  miniature.  It 
was  in  a  very  slight  gold  frame,  with  a  ring  to  it,  as  if  in¬ 
tended  to  be  worn  on  a  chain  ;  and  under  the  glass  at  the  back 
were  two  locks  of  hair,  one  dark  and  the  other  auburn,  ar¬ 
ranged  in  a  fantastic  knot.  It  was  Anthony’s  secret  present 
to  her  a  year  ago  —  a  copy  he  had  had  made  specially  for  her. 
For  the  last  month  she  had  not  taken  it  from  its  hiding-place : 
there  w'as  no  need  to  heighten  the  vividness  of  the  past.  But 
now  she  clutched  it  fiercely,  and  dashed  it  across  the  room 
against  the  bare  hearthstone. 

•  Will  she  crush  it  under  her  feet,  and  grind  it  under  her 
high-heeled  shoe,  till  every  trace  of  those  false  cruel  features 
is  gone  ? 

Ah,  no !  She  rushed  across  the  room  ;  but  when  she  saw 
the  little  treasure  she  had  cherished  so  fondly,  so  often 
smothered  with  kisses,  so  often  laid  under  her  pillow,  and 
remembered  with  the  first  return  of  consciousness  in  the  morn¬ 
ing —  when  she  saw  this  one  visible  relic  of  the  too  happy 
past  lying  with  the  glass  shivered,  the  hair  fallen  out,  the 
thin  ivory  cracked,  there  was  a  revulsion  of  the  over-strained 
feeling :  relenting  came,  and  she  burst  into  tears. 

Look  at  her  stooping  down  to  gather  up  her  treasure, 
searching  for  the  hair  and  replacing  it,  and  then  mournfully 
examining  the  crack  that  disfigures  the  once  loved  image. 
There  is  no  glass  now  to  guard  either  the  hair  or  the  portraits  ; 
but  see  how  carefully  she  wraps  delicate  paper  round  it,  and 
locks  it  up  again  in  its  old  place.  Poor  child !  God  send  the 
relenting  may  always  come  before  the  worst  irrevocable  deed ! 

This  action  had  quieted  her,  and  she  sat  down  to  read  May¬ 
nard’s  letter  again.  She  read  it  two  or  three  times  without 
seeming  to  take  in  the  sense ;  her  apprehension  was  dulled 
by  the  passion  of  the  last  hour,  and  she  found  it  difficult  to 
call  up  the  ideas  suggested  by  the  words.  At  last  she  began 
to  have  a  distinct  conception  of  the  impending  interview  with 

VOL.  IV.  13 


i78 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


Sir  Christopher.  The  idea  of  displeasing  the  Baronet,  of 
whom  every  one  at  the  Manor  stood  in  awe,  frightened  her  so 
much  that  she  thought  it  would  be  impossible  to  resist  his 
wish.  He  believed  that  she  loved  Maynard ;  he  had  always 
spoken  as  if  he  were  quite  sure  of  it.  How  could  she  tell  him 
he  was  deceived  —  and  what  if  he  were  to  ask  her  whether 
she  loved  anybody  else  ?  To  have  Sir  Christopher  looking 
angrily  at  her,  was  more  than  she  could  bear,  even  in  irnagi- 
nation.  He  had  always  been  so  good  to  her !  Then  she  began 
to  think  of  the  pain  she  might  give  him,  and  the  more  selfish 
distress  of  fear  gave  way  to  the  distress  of  affection.  Un¬ 
selfish  tears  began  to  flow,  and  sorrowful  gratitude  to  Sir 
Christopher  helped  to  awaken  her  sensibility  to  Mr.  GilfiFs 
tenderness  and  generosity. 

“  Hear,  good  Maynard  !  —  what  a  poor  return  I  make  him ! 
If  I  could  but  have  loved  him  instead  —  but  I  can  never  love 
or  care  for  anything  again.  My  heart  is  broken.” 


CHAPTER  XIXL 

The  next  morning  the  dreaded  moment  came.  Caterina, 
stupefied  by  the  suffering  of  the  previous  night,  with  that  dull 
mental  aching  which  follows  on  acute  anguish,  was  in  Lady 
Cheverel’s  sitting-room,  copying  out  some  charity  lists,  when 
her  ladyship  came  in,  and  said  — 

“Tina,  Sir  Christopher  wants  you;  go  down  into  the 
library.” 

She  went  down  trembling.  As  soon  as  she  entered,  Sir 
Christopher,  who  was  seated  near  his  writing-table,  said, 
“  Now,  little  monkey,  come  and  sit  down  by  me;  I  have  some¬ 
thing  to  tell  you.” 

Caterina  took  a  footstool,  and  seated  herself  on  it  at  the 

Baronet’s  feet.  It  was  her  habit  to  sit  on  these  low  stools. 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


179 


and  in  this  way  she  could  hide  her  face  better.  She  put  her 
little  arm  round  his  leg,  and  leaned  her  cheek  against  his 
knee. 

“  Why,  you  seem  out  of  spirits  this  morning,  Tina.  What’s 
the  matter,  eh  ?  ” 

“Nothing,  Padroncello  ;  only  my  head  is  bad.” 

“Poor  monkey!  Well,  now,  wouldn’t  it  do  the  head  good 
if  I  were  to  promise  you  a  good  husband,  and  smart  little 
wedding-gowns,  and  by-and-by  a  house  of  your  own,  where  you 
would  be  a  little  mistress,  and  Padroncello  would  come  and 
see  you  sometimes  ?  ” 

“  Oh  no,  no !  I  should  n’t  like  ever  to  be  married.  Let  me 
always  stay  with  you  !  ” 

“  Pooh,  pooh,  little  simpleton.  I  shall  get  old  and  tiresome, 
and  there  will  be  Anthony’s  children  putting  your  nose  out  of 
joint.  You  will  want  some  one  to  love  you  best  of  all,  and 
you  must  have  children  of  your  own  to  love.  I  can’t  have 
you  withering  away  into  an  old  maid.  I  hate  old  maids  :  they 
make  me  dismal  to  look  at  them.  I  never  see  Sharp  without 
shuddering.  My  little  black-eyed  monkey  was  never  meant 
for  anything  so  ugly.  And  there ’s  Maynard  Gilfil  the  best 
man  in  the  county,  worth  his  weight  in  gold,  heavy  as  he 
is ;  he  loves  you  better  than  his  eyes.  And  you  love  him  too, 
you  silly  monkey,  whatever  you  may  say  about  not  being 
married.” 

“  No,  no,  dear  Padroncello,  do  not  say  so ;  I  could  not  marry 
him.” 

“Why  not,  you  foolish  child  ?  You  don’t  know  your  own 
mind.  Why,  it  is  plain  to  everybody  that  you  love  him.  My 
lady  has  all  along  said  she  was  sure  you  loved  him  — -  she  has 
seen  what  little  princess  airs  you  put  on  to  him ;  and  Anthony 
too,  he  thinks  you  are  in  love  with  Gilfil.  Come,  what  has 
made  you  take  it  into  your  head  that  you  wouldn’t  like  to 
marry  him  ?” 

Caterina  was  now  sobbing  too  deeply  to  make  any  answer 
Sir  Christopher  patted  her  on  the  back  and  said,  “Come, 
come  ;  why,  Tina,  you  are  not  well  this  morning.  Go  and 
rest,  little  one.  You  will  see  things  in  quite  another  light 


180  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

when  you  are  well.  Think  over  what  I  have  said,  and  remem¬ 
ber  there  is  nothing,  after  Anthony’s  marriage,  that  I  have 
set  my  heart  on  so  much  as  seeing  you  and  Maynard  settled 
for  life.  I  must  have  no  whims  and  follies  —  no  nonsense.” 
This  was  said  with  a  slight  severity ;  but  he  presently  added, 
in  a  soothing  tone,  “  There,  there,  stop  crying,  and  be  a  good 
little  monkey.  Go  and  lie  down  and  get  to  sleep.” 

Caterina  slipped  from  the  stool  on  to  her  knees,  took  the 
old  Baronet’s  hand,  covered  it  with  tears  and  kisses,  and  then 
ran  out  of  the  room. 

Before  the  evening,  Captain  Wybrow  had  heard  from  his 
uncle  the  result  of  the  interview  with  Caterina.  He  thought, 
“  If  I  could  have  a  long  quiet  talk  with  her,  I  could  perhaps 
persuade  her  to  look  more  reasonably  at  things.  But  there ’s 
no  speaking  to  her  in  the  house  without  being  interrupted, 
and  I  can  hardly  see  her  anywhere  else  without  Beatrice’s 
finding  it  out.”  At  last  he  determined  to  make  it  a  matter  of 
confidence  with  Miss  Assher  —  to  tell  her  that  he  wished  to 
talk  to  Caterina  quietly  for  the  sake  of  bringing  her  to  a 
calmer  state  of  mind,  and  persuade  her  to  listen  to  Gilfil’s 
affection.  He  was  very  much  pleased  with  this  judicious  and 
candid  plan,  and  in  the  course  of  the  evening  he  had  arranged 
with  himself  the  time  and  place  of  meeting,  and  had  com¬ 
municated  his  purpose  to  Miss  Assher,  who  gave  her  entire 
approval.  Anthony,  she  thought,  would  do  well  to  speak 
plainly  and  seriously  to  Miss  Sarti.  He  was  really  very 
patient  and  kind  to  her,  considering  how  she  behaved. 

Tina  had  kept  her  room  all  that  day,  and  had  been  carefully 
tended  as  an  invalid,  Sir  Christopher  having  told  her  ladyship 
how  matters  stood.  This  tendance  was  so  irksome  to  Caterina, 
she  felt  so  uneasy  under  attentions  and  kindness  that  were 
based  on  a  misconception,  that  she  exerted  herself  to  appear 
at  breakfast  the  next  morning,  and  declared  herself  well,  though 
head  and  heart  were  throbbing.  To  be  confined  in  her  own 
room  was  intolerable ;  it  was  wretched  enough  to  be  looked  at 
and  spoken  to,  but  it  was  more  wretched  to  be  left  alone.  She 
was  frightened  at  her  own  sensations  :  she  was  frightened  at 
the  imperious  vividness  with  which  pictures  of  the  past  and 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


181 


future  thrust  themselves  on  her  imagination.  And  there  was 
another  feeling,  too,  which  made  her  want  to  be  down-stairs 
and  moving  about.  Perhaps  she  might  have  an  opportunity 
of  speaking  to  Captain  Wybrow  alone  —  of  speaking  those 
words  of  hatred  and  scorn  that  burned  on  her  tongue.  That 
opportunity  offered  itself  in  a  very  unexpected  manner. 

Lady  Gheverel  having  sent  Caterina  out  of  the  drawing-room' 
to  fetch  some  patterns  of  embroidery  from  her  sitting-room, 
Captain  Wybrow  presently  walked  out  after  hei*,  and  met  her 
as  she  was  returning  down-stairs. 

11  Caterina,  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  her  arm  as  she  was 
hurrying  on  without  looking  at  him,  “  will  you  meet  me  in  the 
Rookery  at  twelve  o’clock  ?  I  must  speak  to  you,  and  we  shall 
be  in  privacy  there.  I  cannot  speak  to  you  in  the  house.” 

To  his  surprise,  there  was  a  flash  of  pleasure  across 
her  face;  she  answered  shortly  and  decidedly,  “Yes,”  then 
snatched  her  arm  away  from  him,  and  passed  down-stairs. 

Miss  Assher  was  this  morning  busy  winding  silks,  being 
bent  on  emulating  Lady  Cheverel’s  embroidery,  and  Lady 
Assher  chose  the  passive  amusement  of  holding  the  skeins. 
Lady  Cheverel  had  now  all  her  working  apparatus  about  her, 
and  Caterina,  thinking  she  was  not  wanted,  went  away  and  sat 
down  to  the  harpsichord  in  the  sitting-room.  It  seemed  as  if 
playing  massive  chords  —  bringing  out  volumes  of  sound, 
would  be  the  easiest  way  of  passing  the  long  feverish  moments 
before  twelve  o’clock.  Handel’s  “Messiah”  stood  open  on 
the  desk,  at  the  chorus,  “  All  we  like  sheep,”  and  Caterina 
threw  herself  at  once  into  the  impetuous  intricacies  of  that 
magnificent  fugue.  In  her  happiest  moments  she  could  never 
have  played  it  so  well ;  for  now  all  the  passion  that  made  her 
misery  was  hurled  by  a  convulsive  effort  into  her  music,  just 
as  pain  gives  new  force  to  the  clutch  of  the  sinking  wrestler, 
and  as  terror  gives  far-sounding  intensity  to  the  shriek  of 
the  feeble. 

But  at  half-past  eleven  she  was  interrupted  by  Lady  Chev¬ 
erel,  who  said,  “Tina,  go  down,  will  you,  and  hold  Miss 
Assher’s  silks  for  her.  Lady  Assher  and  I  have  decided  on 
having  our  drive  before  luncheon.” 


182 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


Caterina  went  down,  wondering  how  she  should  escape  from 
the  drawing-room  in  time  to  be  in  the  Rookery  at  twelve. 
Nothing  should  prevent  her  from  going ;  nothing  should  rob 
her  of  this  one  precious  moment  —  perhaps  the  last  —  when 
she  could  speak  out  the  thoughts  that  were  in  her.  After  that, 
she  would  be  passive  ;  she  would  bear  anything. 

But  she  had  scarcely  sat  down  with  a  skein  of  yellow  silk 
on  her  hands,  when  Miss  Asslier  said,  graciously  — 

“  I  know  yob.  have  an  engagement  with  Captain  Wybrow  this 
morning.  You  must  not  let  me  detain  you  beyond  the  time.” 

“  So  he  has  been  talking  to  her  about  me,”  thought  Caterina. 
Her  hands  began  to  tremble  as  she  held  the  skein. 

Miss  Asslier  continued,  in  the  same  gracious  tone  :  “  It  is 
tedious  work  holding  these  skeins.  I  am  sure  I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  you.” 

“  No,  you  are  not  obliged  to  me,”  said  Caterina,  completely 
mastered  by  her  irritation;  “I  have  only  done  it  because 
Lady  Cheverel  told  me.” 

The  moment  was  come  when  Miss  Assher  could  no  longer 
suppress  her  long  latent  desire  to  “  let  Miss  Sarti  know  the 
impropriety  of  her  conduct.”  With  the  malicious  anger  that 
assumes  the  tone  of  compassion,  she  said  — 

“  Miss  Sarti,  I  am  really  sorry  for  you,  that  you  are  not  able 
to  control  yourself  better.  This  giving  way  to  unwarrantable 
feelings  is  lowering  you —  it  is  indeed.” 

“  What  unwarrantable  feelings  ?  ”  said  Caterina,  letting  her 
hands  fall,  and  fixing  her  great  dark  eyes  steadily  on  Miss 
Assher. 

“It  is  quite  unnecessary  for  me  to  say  more.  You  must 
be  conscious  what  I  mean.  Only  summon  a  sense  of  duty 
to  your  aid.  You  are  paining  Captain  Wybrow  extremely  by 
your  want  of  *  df-control.” 

“  Did  he  tell  you  I  pained  him  ?  ” 

“Yes,  inde<  1,  he  did.  He  is  very  much  hurt  that  you 
should  behave  to  me  as  if  you  had  a  sort  of  enmity  towards 
me.  He  would  like  you  to  make  a  friend  of  me.  I  assure  you 
we  both  feel  very  kindly  towards  you,  and  are  sorry  you 
should  cherish  such  feelings.” 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY.  183 

49  He  is  very  good,”  said  Catering  bitterly.  “  What  feelings 
did  he  say  I  cherished  ?  ” 

This  bitter  tone  increased  Miss  Assher’s  irritation.  There 
was  still  a  lurking  suspicion  in  her  mind,  though  she  would 
not  admit  it  to  herself,  that  Captain  Wybrow  had  told  her  a 
falsehood  about  his  conduct  and  feelings  towards  Caterina.  It 
was  this  suspicion,  more  even  than  the  anger  of  the  moment, 
which  urged  her  to  say  something  that  would  test  the  truth  of 
his  statement.  That  she  would  be  humiliating  Caterina  at  the 
same  time  was  only  an  additional  temptation. 

“  These  are  things  I  do  not  like  to  talk  of,  Miss  Sarti.  I 
cannot  even  understand  how  a  woman  can  indulge  a  passion 
for  a  man  who  has  never  given  her  the  least  ground  for  it,  as 
Captain  Wybrow  assures  me  is  the  case.” 

“  He  told  you  that,  did  he  ?  ”  said  Caterina,  in  clear  low 
tones,  her  lips  turning  white  as  she  rose  from  her  chair. 

“  Yes,  indeed,  he  did.  He  was  bound  to  tell  it  me  after 
your  strange  behavior.” 

Caterina  said  nothing,  but  turned  round  suddenly  and  left 
the  room. 

See  how  she  rushes  noiselessly,  like  a  pale  meteor,  along 
the  passages  and  up  the  gallery  stairs  !  Those  gleaming  eyes, 
those  bloodless  lips,  that  swift  silent  tread,  make  her  look  like 
the  incarnation  of  a  fierce  purpose,  rather  than  a  woman.  The 
mid-day  sun  is  shining  on  the  armor  in  the  gallery,  making 
mimic  suns  on  bossed  sword-hilts  and  the  angles  of  polished 
breastplates.  Yes,  there  are  sharp  weapons  in  the  gallery. 
There  is  a  dagger  in  that  cabinet ;  she  knows  it  well.  And 
as  a  dragon-fly  wheels  in  its  flight  to  alight  for  an  instant  on 
a  leaf,  she  darts  to  the  cabinet,  takes  out  the  dagger,  and 
thrusts  it  into  her  pocket.  In  three  minutes  more  she  is  out, 
in  hat  and  cloak,  on  the  gravel-walk,  hurrying  along  towards 
the  thick  shades  of  the  distant  Rookery.  She  threads  the 
windings  of  the  plantations,  not  feeling  the  golden  leaves  that 
rain  upon  her,  not  feeling  the  earth  beneath  her  feet.  Her 
hand  is  in  her  pocket,  clenching  the  handle  of  the  dagger, 
which  she  holds  half  out  of  its  sheath. 

She  has  -reached  the  Rookery,  and  is  under  the  gloom  of  the 


184 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


interlacing  boughs.  Her  heart  throbs  as  if  it  would  burst  hei 
bosom  — as  if  every  next  leap  must  be  its  last.  Wait,  wait, 
0  heart !  —  till  she  has  done  this  one  deed.  He  will  be  there 

_ he  will  be  before  her  in  a  moment.  He  will  come  towards 

her  with  that  false  smile,  thinking  she  does  not  know  his  base- 
ness  —  she  will  plunge  that  dagger  into  his  heart. 

Poor  child!  poor  child!  she  who  used  to  cry  to  have  the 
fish  put  back  into  the  water  —  who  never  willingly  killed  the 
smallest  living  thing  —  dreams  now,  in  the  madness  of  her 
passion,  that  she  can  kill  the  man  whose  very  voice  unnerves 
her. 

But  what  is  that  lying  among  the  dank  leaves  on  the  path 
three  yards  before  her  ? 

Good  God!  it  is  he  —  lying  motionless  —  his  hat  fallen  off. 
He  is  ill,  then  —  he  has  fainted.  Her  hand  lets  go  the  dagger, 
and  she  rushes  towards  him.  His  eyes  are  fixed ;  he  does  not 
see  her.  She  sinks  down  on  her  knees,  takes  the  dear  head 
in  her  arms,  and  kisses  the  cold  forehead. 

ee Anthony,  Anthony!  speak  to  me — it  is  Tina  —  speak  to 
me !  O  God,  he  is  dead  1  ” 


♦ 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

“Yes,  Maynard,”  said  Sir  Christopher,  chatting  with  Mr. 
Gilfil  in  the  library,  “  it  really  is  a  remarkable  thing  that  I 
never  in  my  life  laid  a  plan,  and  failed  to  carry  it  out.  I  lay 
my  plans  well,  and  I  never  swerve  from  them  —  that’s  it.  A 
strong  will  is  the  only  magic.  And  next  to  striking  out  one’s 
plans,  the  pleasantest  thing  in  the  world  is  to  see  them  well 
accomplished.  This  year,  now,  will  be  the  happiest  of  my 
life,  all  but  the  year  ’53,  when  I  came  into  possession  of  the 
Manor,  and  married  Henrietta.  The  last  touch  is  given  to  the 
old  house ;  Anthony’s  marriage  —  the  thing  I  had  nearest  my 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


185 

heart  —  is  settled  to  my  entire  satisfaction;  and  byand-by 
you  will  be  buying  a  little  wedding-ring  for  Tina’s  finger. 
Don’t  shake  your  head  in  that  forlorn  way ;  —  when  I  make 
prophecies  they  generally  come  to  pass.  But  there ’s  a  quar¬ 
ter  after  twelve  striking.  I  must  be  riding  to  the  High  Ash 
to  meet  Markham  about  felling  some  timber.  My  old  oaks 
will  have  to  groan  for  this  wedding,  but  —  ” 

The  door  burst  open,  and  Caterina,  ghastly  and  panting,  her 
eyes  distended  with  terror,  rushed  in,  threw  her  arms  round 
Sir  Christopher’s  neck,  and  gasping  out  —  “  Anthony  .  .  .  the 

Rookery  .  .  .  dead  ...  in  the  Rookery,”  fell  fainting  on  the 
floor. 

In  a  moment  Sir  Christopher  was  out  of  the  room,  and  Mr. 
Gilfil  was  bending  to  raise  Caterina  in  his  arms.  As  he  lifted 
her  from  the  ground  he  felt  something  hard  and  heavy  in  her 
pocket.  What  could  it  be  ?  The  weight  of  it  would  be  enough 
to  hurt  her  as  she  lay.  He  carried  her  to  the  sofa,  put  his 
hand  in  her  pocket,  and  drew  forth  the  dagger. 

Maynard  shuddered.  Did  she  mean  to  kill  herself,  then, 
or  ...  or  ...  a  horrible  suspicion  forced  itself  upon  him. 
“  Dead  —  in  the  Rookery.”  He  hated  himself  for  the  thought 
that  prompted  him  to  draw  the  dagger  from  its  sheath.  Ro  ! 
there  was  no  trace  of  blood,  and  he  was  ready  to  kiss  the  good 
steel  for  its  innocence.  He  thrust  the  weapon  into  his  own 
pocket;  he  would  restore  it  as  soon  as  possible  to  its  well- 
known  place  in  the  gallery.  Yet,  why  had  Caterina  taken 
this  dagger  ?  What  was  it  that  had  happened  in  the  Rookery  ? 
Was  it  only  a  delirious  vision  of  hers  ? 

He  was  afraid  to  ring  —  afraid  to  summon  any  one  to  Cater- 
ina’s  assistance.  What  might  she  not  say  when  she  awoke 
from  this  fainting-fit  ?  She  might  be  raving.  He  could  not 
leave  her,  and  yet  he  felt  as  if  he  were  guilty  for  not  follow  • 
ing  Sir  Christopher  to  see  what  was  the  truth.  It  took  but  a 
moment  to  think  and  feel  all  this,  but  that  moment  seemed 
such  a  long  agony  to  him  that  he  began  to  reproach  himself 
for  letting  it  pass  without  seeking  some  means  of  reviving 
Caterina.  Happily  the  decanter  of  water  on  Sir  Christopher’s 
table  was  untouched.  He  would  at  least  try  the  effect  of 


186 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE, 


throwing  that  water  over  her.  She  might  revive  without  his 
needing  to  call  any  one  else. 

Meanwhile  Sir  Christopher  was  hurrying  at  his  utmost 
speed  towards  the  Rookery ;  his  face,  so  lately  bright  and  con¬ 
fident,  now  agitated  by  a  vague  dread.  The  deep  alarmed 
bark  of  Rupert,  who  ran  by  his  side,  had  struck  the  ear  of 
Mr.  Bates,  then  on  his  way  homeward,  as  something  unwonted, 
and,  hastening  in  the  direction  of  the  sound,  he  met  the 
Baronet  just  as  he  was  approaching  the  entrance  of  the 
Rookery.  Sir  Christopher’s  look  was  enough.  Mr.  Bates 
said  nothing,  but  hurried  along  by  his  side,  while  Rupert 
dashed  forward  among  the  dead  leaves  with  his  nose  to  the 
ground.  They  had  scarcely  lost  sight  of  him  a  minute  when 
a  change  in  the  tone  of  his  bark  told  them  that  he  had  found 
something,  and  in  another  instant  he  was  leaping  back  over 
one  of  the  large  planted  mounds.  They  turned  aside  to 
ascend  the  mound,  Rupert  leading  them  ;  the  tumultuous 
cawing  of  the  rooks,  the  very  rustling  of  the  leaves,  as  their 
feet  plunged  among  them,  falling  like  an  evil  omen  on  the 
Baronet’s  ear. 

They  had  reached  the  summit  of  the  mound,  and  had  begun 
to  descend.  Sir  Christopher  saw  something  purple  down  on 
the  path  below  among  the  yellow  leaves.  Rupert  was  already 
beside  it,  but  Sir  Christopher  could  not  move  faster.  A  tremor 
had  taken  hold  of  the  firm  limbs.  Rupert  came  back  and 
licked  the  trembling  hand,  as  if  to  say  “  Courage  !  ”  and  then 
was  down  again  snuffing  the  body.  Yes,  it  was  a  body  .  .  . 
Anthony’s  body.  There  was  the  white  hand  with  its  diamond 
ring  clutching  the  dark  leaves.  His  eyes  were  half  open,  but 
did  not  heed  the  gleam  of  sunlight  that  darted  itself  directly 
on  them  from  between  the  boughs. 

Still  he  might  only  have  fainted  ;  it  might  only  be  a  fit. 
Sir  Christopher  knelt  down,  unfastened  the  cravat,  unfastened 
the  waistcoat,  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  heart.  It  might  be 
syncope ;  it  might  not  —  it  could  not  be  death.  No !  that 
thought  must  be  kept  far  off. 

“  Go,  Bates,  get  help ;  we  ’ll  carry  him  to  your  cottage. 
Send  some  one  to  the  house  to  tell  Mr.  Gilfil  and  Warren. 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY.  187 

Bid  them  send  off  for  Doctor  Hart,  and  break  it  to  my  lady 
and  Miss  Assher  that  Anthony  is  111.” 

Mr.  Bates  hastened  away,  and  the  Baronet  was  left  alone 
kneeling  beside  the  body.  The  young  and  supple  limbs,  the 
rounded  cheeks,  the  delicate  ripe  lips,  the  smooth  white  hands, 
were  lying  cold  and  rigid  ;  and  the  aged  face  was  bending 
over  them  in  silent  anguish ;  the  aged  deep-veined  hands  were 
seeking  with  tremulous  inquiring  touches  for  some  symptom 
that  life  was  not  irrevocably  gone. 

Rupert  was  there  too,  waiting  and  watching ;  licking  first 
the  dead  and  then  the  living  hands  ;  then  running  off  on  Mr. 
Bates’s  track  as  if  he  would  follow  and  hasten  his  return,  but 
in  a  moment  turning  back  again,  unable  to  quit  the  scene  of 
his  master’s  sorrow. 


CHAPTER  XV, 

It  is  a  wonderful  moment,  the  first  time  we  stand  by  one 
who  has  fainted,  and  witness  the  fresh  birth  of  consciousness 
spreading  itself  over  the  blank  features,  like  the  rising  sun¬ 
light  on  the  alpine  summits  that  lay  ghastly  and  dead  under 
the  leaden  twilight.  A  slight  shudder,  and  the  frost-bound 
eyes  recover  their  liquid  light ;  for  an  instant  they  show  the 
inward  semi-consciousness  of  an  infant’s  ;  then,  with  a  little 
start,  they  open  wider  and  begin  to  look  ;  the  present  is  visi¬ 
ble,  but  only  as  a  strange  writing,  and  the  interpreter  Memory 
is  not  yet  there. 

Mr.  Gilfil  felt  a  trembling  joy  as  this  change  passed  over 
Caterina’s  face.  He  bent  over  her,  rubbing  her  chill  hands, 
and  looking  at  her  with  tender  pity  as  her  dark  eyes  opened 
on  him  wonderingly.  He  thought  there  might  be  some  wine 
in  the  dining-room  close  by.  He  left  the  room,  and  Caterina’s 
eyes  turned  towards  the  window  —  towards  Sir  Christopher’s 
chair.  There  was  the  link  at  which  the  chain  of  consciousness 


188 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


had  snapped,  and  the  events  of  the  morning  were  beginning 
to  recur  dimly  like  a  half-remembered  dream,  when  Maynard 
returned  with  some  wine.  He  raised  her,  a„d  she  drank  it ; 
but  still  she  was  silent,  seeming  lost  in  the  attempt  to  recover 
the  past,  when  the  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Warren  appeared 
with  looks  that  announced  terrible  tidings.  Mr.  Gilfil,  dread¬ 
ing  lest  he  should  tell  them  in  Caterina’s  presence,  hurried 
towards  him  with  his  finger  on  his  lips,  and  drew  him  away 
into  the  dining-room  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  passage. 

Caterina,  revived  by  the  stimulant,  was  now  recovering  the 
full  consciousness  of  the  scene  in  the  Rookery.  Anthony  was 
lying  there  dead ;  she  had  left  him  to  tell  Sir  Christopher ;  she 
must  go  and  see  what  they  were  doing  with  him ;  perhaps  he 
was  not  really  dead  —  only  in  a  trance  ;  people  did  fall  into 
trances  sometimes.  While  Mr.  Gilfil  was  telling  Warren  how 
it  would  be  best  to  break  the  news  to  Lady  Cheverel  and  Miss 
Assher,  anxious  himself  to  return  to  Caterina,  the  poor  child 
had  made  her  way  feebly  to  the  great  entrance-door,  which 
stood  open.  Her  strength  increased  as  she  moved  and  breathed 
the  fresh  air,  and  with  every  increase  of  strength  came  in¬ 
creased  vividness  of  emotion,  increased  yearning  to  be  where 
her  thought  was  —  in  the  Rookery  with  Anthony.  She  walked 
more  and  more  swiftly,  and  at  last,  gathering  the  artificial 
strength  of  passionals  excitement,  began  to  run. 

But  now  she  heard  the  tread  of  heavy  steps,  and  under  the 
yellow  shade  near  the  wooden  bridge  she  saw  men  slowly  carry* 
ing  something.  Soon  she  was  face  to  face  with  them.  Anthony 
was  no  longer  in  the  Rookery :  they  were  carrying  him 
stretched  on  a  door,  and  there  behind  him  was  Sir  Christopher, 
with  the  firmly  set  mouth,  the  deathly  paleness,  and  the  concen¬ 
trated  expression  of  suffering  in  the  eye,  which  mQ^k  the  sup¬ 
pressed  grief  of  the  strong  man.  The  sight  of  this  face,  on 
which  Caterina  had  never  before  beheld  the  signs  of  anguish, 
caused  a  rush  of  new  feeling  which  for  the  moment  submerged 
all  the  rest.  She  went  gently  up  to  him,  put  her  little  hand 
in  his,  and  walked  in  silence  by  his  side.  Sir  Christopher 
oould  not  tell  her  to  leave  him,  and  so  she  went  on  with  that 
sad  procession  to  Mr.  Bates’s  cottage  in  the  Mosslands,  and  sat 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY.  189 

diere  in  silence,  waiting  and  watching  to  know  if  Anthony 
were  really  dead. 

She  had  not  yet  missed  the  dagger  from  her  pocket ;  she  had 
not  yet  even  thought  of  it.  At  the  sight  of  Anthony  lying  dead, 
her  nature  had  rebounded  from  its  new  bias  of  resentment  and 
hatred  to  the  old  sweet  habit  of  love.  The  earliest  and  the 
longest  has  still  the  mastery  over  us ;  and  the  only  p  ast  'j-uic 
linked  itself  with  those  glazed  unconscious  eyes,  was  ttio  'past 
when  they  beamed  on  her  with  tenderness.  She  forgot  the 
interval  of  wrong  and  jealousy  and  hatred  —  all  his  cruelty, 
and  all  her  thoughts  of  revenge  —  as  the  exile  forgets  the 
stormy  passage  that  lay  between  home  and  happiness  and  the 
dreary  land  in  which  he  finds  himself  desolate* 


CHAPTER  XYL 

Before  night  all  hope  was  gone.  Dr.  Hart  had  said  it  was 

death ;  Anthony’s  body  had  been  carried  to  the  house,  and 
every  one  there  knew  the  calamity  that  had  fallen  on  them. 

Caterina  had  been  questioned  by  Dr.  Hart,  and  had  answered 
briefly  that  she  found  Anthony  lying  in  the  Rookery.  That 
she  should  have  been  walking  there  just  at  that  time  was  not 
a  coincidence  to  raise  conjectures  in  any  one  besides  Mr.  Gilfil. 
Except  in  answering  this  question,  she  had  not  broken  her 
silence.  She  sat  mute  in  a  corner  of  the  gardener’s  kitchen, 
shaking  her  head  when  Maynard  entreated  her  to  return  with 
him,  and  apparently  unable  to  think  of  anything  but  the  pos¬ 
sibility  that  Anthony  might  revive,  until  she  saw  them  carrying 
away  the  body  to  the  house.  Then  she  followed  by  Sir  Chris¬ 
topher’s  side  again,  so  quietly,  that  even  Dr.  Hart  did  not  ob 
ject  to  her  presence. 

It  was  decided  to  lay  the  body  in  the  library  until  after  the 
coroner’s  inquest  to-morrow ;  and  when  Caterina  saw  the  doo; 


190 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


finally  closed,  she  turned  up  the  gallery  stairs  on  her  way  to 
her  own  room,  the  place  where  she  felt  at  home  with  her  sor¬ 
rows.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  been  in  the  gallery  since 
that  terrible  moment  in  the  morning,  and  now  the  spot  and 
the  objects  around  began  to  reawaken  her  half-stunned  mem¬ 
ory.  The  armor  was  no  longer  glittering  in  the  sunlight,  but 
there  it  hung  dead  and  sombre  above  the  cabinet  from  which 
she  had  taken  the  dagger.  Yes  !  now  it  all  came  back  to  her 

—  ail  the  wretchedness  and  all  the  sin.  But  where  was  the 
dagger  now  ?  She  felt  in  her  pocket;  it  was  not  there.  Could 
it  have  been  her  fancy  —  all  that  about  the  dagger  ?  She  looked 
in  the  cabinet ;  it  was  not  there.  Alas !  no ;  it  could  not  have 
been  her  fancy,  and  she  was  guilty  of  that  wickedness.  But 
where  could  the  dagger  be  now  ?  Could  it  have  fallen  out  of 
her  pocket  ?  She  heard  steps  ascending  the  stairs,  and  hurried 
on  to  her  room,  where,  kneeling  by  the  bed,  and  burying  her 
face  to  shut  out  the  hateful  light,  she  tried  to  recall  every  feel¬ 
ing  and  incident  of  the  morning. 

It  all  came  back ;  everything  Anthony  had  done,  and  every¬ 
thing  she  had  felt  for  the  last  month  —  for  many  months  — 
ever  since  that  June  evening  when  he  had  last  spoken  to  her 
in  the  gallery.  She  looked  back  on  her  storms  of  passion,  her 
jealousy  and  hatred  of  Miss  Assher,  her  thoughts  of  revenge 
on  Anthony.  Oh,  how  wicked  she  had  been  !  It  was  she  who 
had  been  sinning ;  it  was  she  who  had  driven  him  to  do  and 
say  those  things  that  had  made  her  so  angry.  And  if  he  had 
wronged  her,  what  had  she  been  on  the  verge  of  doing  to  him  ? 
She  was  too  wicked  ever  to  be  pardoned.  She  would  like  to 
confess  how  wicked  she  had  been,  that  they  might  punish  her; 
she  would  like  to  humble  herself  to  the  dust  before  every  one 

—  before  Miss  Assher  even.  Sir  Christopher  would  send  her 
away  —  would  never  see  her  again,  if  he  knew  all ;  and  she 
would  be  happier  to  be  punished  and  frowned  on,  than  to  be 
treated  tenderly  while  she  had  that  guilty  secret  in  her  breast. 
But  then,  if  Sir  Christopher  were  to  know  all,  it  would  add  to 
his  sorrow,  and  make  him  more  wretched  than  ever.  No  !  she 
could  not  confess  it  —  she  should  have  to  tell  about  Anthony. 
But  she  could  not  stay  at  the  Manor ;  she  must  go  away ;  she 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


191 


oould  not  bear  Sir  Christopher’s  eye,  could  not  bear  the  sight 
of  all  these  things  that  reminded  her  of  Anthony  and  of  her 
sin.  Perhaps  she  should  die  soon ;  she  felt  very  feeble ;  there 
could  not  be  much  life  in  her.  She  would  go  away  and  live 
humbly,  and  pray  to  God  to  pardon  her,  and  let  her  die. 

The  poor  child  never  thought  of  suicide.  No  sooner  was  the 
storm  of  anger  passed  than  the  tenderness  and  timidity  of  her 
nature  returned,  and  she  could  do  nothing  but  love  and  mourn. 
Her  inexperience  prevented  her  from  imagining  the  conse¬ 
quences  of  her  disappearance  from  the  Manor ;  she  foresaw 
none  of  the  terrible  details  of  alarm  and  distress  and  search 
that  must  ensue.  “They  will  think  I  am  dead,”  she  said  to 
herself,  “  and  by-and-by  they  will  forget  me,  and  Maynard  will 
get  happy  again,  and  love  some  one  else.” 

She  was  roused  from  her  absorption  by  a  knock  at  the  door. 
Mrs.  Bellamy  was  there.  She  had  come  by  Mr.  Gilfil’s  request 
to  see  how  Miss  Sarti  was,  and  to  bring  her  some  food  and 
wine. 

“  You  look  sadly,  my  dear,”  said  the  old  housekeeper,  “  an’ 
you’re  all  of  a  quake  wi’  cold.  Get  you  to  bed,  now  do. 
Martha  shall  come  an’  warm  it,  an’  light  your  fire.  See  now, 
here ’s  some  nice  arrowroot,  wi’  a  drop  o’  wine  in  it.  Take 
that,  an’  it  ’ll  warm  you.  I  must  go  down  again,  for  I  can’t 
awhile  to  stay.  There ’s  so  many  things  to  see  to ;  an’  Miss 
Assher’s  in  hysterics  constant,  an’  her  maid’s  ill  i’  bed  —  a 
poor  creachy  thing  —  an’  Mrs.  Sharp’s  wanted  every  minute. 
But  I  ’ll  send  Martha  up,  an’  do  you  get  ready  to  go  to  bed, 
there ’s  a  dear  child,  an’  take  care  o’  yourself.” 

“Thank  you,  dear  mammy,”  said  Tina,  kissing  the  little 
old  woman’s  wrinkled  cheek ;  “  I  shall  eat  the  arrowroot,  and 
don’t  trouble  about  me  any  more  to-night.  I  shall  do  very  well 
when  Martha  has  lighted  my  fire.  Tell  Mr.  Gilfil  I ’m  better. 
I  shall  go  to  bed  by-and-by,  so  don’t  you  come  up  again,  because 
you  may  only  disturb  me.” 

“Well,  well,  take  care  o’  yourself,  there’s  a  good  child,  an’ 
God  send  you  may  sleep.” 

Caterina  took  the  arrowroot  quite  eagerly,  while  Martha 
was  lighting  her  fire.  She  wanted  to  get  strength  for  her 


192 


SCENES  OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

journey,  and  she  kept  the  plate  of  biscuits  by  her  that  she 
might  put  some  in  her  pocket.  Her  whole  inmd  was  now 
bent  on  going  away  from  the  Manor,  and  she  was  thinking 
of  all  the  ways  and  means  her  little  life’s  experience  could 
suggest. 

It  was  dusk  now;  she  must  wait  till  early  dawn,  for  she 
was  too  timid  to  go  away  in  the  dark,  but  she  must  make  her 
escape  before  any  one  was  up  in  the  house.  There  would  be 
people  watching  Anthony  in  the  library,  but  she  could  make 
her  way  out  of  a  small  door  leading  into  the  garden,  against 
the  drawing-room  on  the  other  side  of  the  house. 

She  laid  her  cloak,  bonnet,  and  veil  ready ;  then  she  lighted 
a  candle,  opened  her  desk,  and  took  out  the  broken  portrait 
wrapped  in  paper.  She  folded  it  again  in  two  little  notes  of 
Anthony’s,  written  in  pencil,  and  placed  it  in  her  bosom. 
There  was  the  little  china  box,  too  —  Dorcas’s  present,  the 
pearl  earrings,  and  a  silk  purse,  with  fifteen  seven-shilling 
pieces  in  it,  the  presents  Sir  Christopher  had  made  her  on  her 
birthday,  ever  since  she  had  been  at  the  Manor.  Should  she 
take  the  earrings  and  the  seven-shilling  pieces  ?  She  could 
not  bear  to  part  with  them ;  it  seemed  as  if  they  had  some  of 
*  Sir  Christopher’s  love  in  them.  She  would  like  them  to  be 
buried  with  her.  She  fastened  the  little  round  earrings  in 
her  ears,  and  put  the  purse  with  Dorcas’s  box  in  her  pocket. 
She  had  another  purse  there,  and  she  took  it  out  to  count  her 
money,  for  she  would  never  spend  her  seven-shilling  pieces. 
She  had  a  guinea  and  eight  shillings ;  that  would  be  plenty. 

So  now  she  sat  down  to  wait  for  the  morning,  afraid  to  lay 
herself  on  the  bed  lest  she  should  sleep  too  long.  If  she  could 
but  see  Anthony  once  more  and  kiss  his  cold  forehead !  But 
that  could  not  be.  She  did  not  deserve  it.  She  must  go  away 
from  him,  away  from  Sir  Christopher,  and  Lady  Cheverel,  and 
Maynard,  and  everybody  who  had  been  kind  to  her,  and  thought 
Kor  good  while  she  was  so  wicked. 


m.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


193 


CHAPTER  XVEL 


Some  of  Mrs.  Sharp’s  earliest  thoughts,  the  next  morning, 
were  given  to  Caterina,  whom  she  had  not  been  able  to  visit 
the  evening  before,  and  whom,  from  a  nearly  equal  mixture  of 
affection  and  self-importance,  she  did  not  at  all  like  resigning 
to  Mrs.  Bellamy’s  care.  At  half-past  eight  o’clock  she  went 
up  to  Tina’s  room,  bent  on  benevolent  dictation  as  to  doses 
and  diet  and  lying  in  bed.  But  on  opening  the  door  she  found 
the  bed  smooth  and  empty.  Evidently  it  had  not  been  slept 
in.  What  could  this  mean  ?  Had  she  sat  up  all  night,  and 
was  she  gone  out  to  walk  ?  The  poor  thing’s  head  might  be 
touched  by  what  had  happened  yesterday ;  it  was  such  a  shock 

finding  Captain  Wybrow  in  that  way ;  she  was  perhaps 
gone  out  of  her  mind.  Mrs.  Sharp  looked  anxiously  in  the 
place  where  Tina  kept  her  hat  and  cloak ;  they  were  not  there, 
so  that  she  had  had  at  least  the  presence  of  mind  to  put  them 
on.  Still  the  good  woman  felt  greatly  alarmed,  and  hastened 
away  to  tell  Mr.  Gilfil,  who,  she  knew,  was  in  his  study. 

“  Mr,  Gilfil,”  she  said,  as  soon  as  she  had  closed  the  door 
behind  her,  “my  mind  misgives  me  dreadful  about  Miss 
Sarti.” 

‘‘  What  is  it  ?  ”  said  poor  Maynard,  with  a  horrible  fear  that 
Caterina  had  betrayed  something  about  the  dagger. 

“  She ’s  not  in  her  room,  an’  her  bed ’s  not  been  slept  in  this 
night,  an’  her  hat  an’  cloak ’s  gone.” 

For  a  minute  or  two  Mr.  Gilfil  was  unable  to  speak.  He 
felt  sure  the  worst  had  come :  Caterina  had  destroyed  herself. 
The  strong  man  suddenly  looked  so  ill  and  helpless  that  Mrs. 
Sharp  began  to  be  frightened  at  the  effect  of  her  abruptness. 

“  Oh,  sir,  I ’m  grieved  to  my  heart  to  shock  you  so ;  hut  I 
did  n’t  know  who  else  to  go  to.” 

“  No,  no,  you  were  quite  right.” 

He  gathered  some  strength  from  his  very  despair.  It  was 

13 


VOL.  IV. 


194 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


all  over,  and  lie  had  nothing  now  to  do  but  to  suffer  and  to 
help  the  suffering.  He  went  on  in  a  firmer  voice  — - 

“Be  sure  not  to  breathe  a  word  about  it  to  any  one.  We 
must  not  alarm  Lady  Cheverel  and  Sir  Christopher.  Miss 
Sarti  may  be  only  walking  in  the  garden.  She  was  terribly 
excited  by  what  she  saw  yesterday,  and  perhaps  was  unable 
to  lie  down  from  restlessness.  Just  go  quietly  through  the 
empty  rooms,  and  see  whether  she  is  in  the  house.  I  will  go 
and  look  for  her  in  the  grounds.” 

He  went  down,  and,  to  avoid  giving  any  alarm  in  the  house, 
walked  at  once  towards  the  Mosslands  in  search  of  Mr.  Bates, 
whom  he  met  returning  from  his  breakfast.  To  the  gardener 
he  confided  his  fear  about  Caterina,  assigning  as  a  reason  for 
this  fear  the  probability  that  the  shock  she  had  undergone 
yesterday  had  unhinged  her  mind,  and  begging  him  to  send 
men  in  search  of  her  through  the  gardens  and  park,  and  in¬ 
quire  if  she  had  been  seen  at  the  lodges  ;  and  if  she  were  not 
found  or  heard  of  in  this  way,  to  lose  no  time  in  dragging  the 
waters  round  the  Manor. 

“  God  forbid  it  should  be  so,  Bates,  but  we  shall  be  the 
easier  for  having  searched  everywhere.” 

“  Troost  to  mae,  troost  to  mae,  Mr.  Gilfil.  Eh  !  but  I  ’d  ha* 
worked  for  day-wage  all  the  rest  o’  my  life,  rether  than  any¬ 
thin’  should  ha’  happened  to  her.” 

The  good  gardener,  in  deep  distress,  strode  away  to  thb 
stables  that  he  might  send  the  grooms  on  horseback  through 
the  park. 

Mr.  Gilfil’s  next  thought  was  to  search  the  Bookery :  she 
might  be  haunting  the  scene  of  Captain  Wybrow’s  death.  He 
went  hastily  over  every  mound,  looked  round  every  large  tree, 
and  followed  every  winding  of  the  walks.  In  reality  he  had 
little  hope  of  finding  her  there ;  but  the  bare  possibility  fenced 
off  for  a  time  the  fatal  conviction  that  Caterina’s  body  would 
be  found  in  the  water.  When  the  Bookery  had  been  searched 
in  vain,  he  walked  fast  to  the  border  of  the  little  stream  that 
bounded  one  side  of  the  grounds.  The  stream  was  almost  every¬ 
where  hidden  among  trees,  and  there  was  one  place  where  it 
was  broader  and  deeper  than  elsewhere  —  she  would  be  more 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


195 


iikely  to  come  to  that  spot  than  to  the  pool.  He  hurried 
along  with  strained  eyes,  his  imagination  continually  creating 
what  he  dreaded  to  see. 

There  is  something  white  behind  that  overhanging  bough. 
His  knees  tremble  under  him.  He  seems  to  see  part  of  her 
dress  caught  on  a  branch,  and  her  dear  dead  face  upturned. 
0  God,  give  strength  to  thy  creature,  on  whom  thou  hast  laid 
this  great  agony  !  He  is  nearly  up  to  the  bough,  and  the 
white  object  is  moving.  It  is  a  waterfowl,  that  spreads  its 
wings  and  flies  away  screaming.  He  hardly  knows  whether 
it  is  a  relief  or  a  disappointment  that  she  is  not  there.  The 
conviction  that  she  is  dead  presses  its  cold  weight  upon  him 
none  the  less  heavily. 

As  he  reached  the  great  pool  in  front  of  the  Manor,  he  saw 
Mr.  Bates,  with  a  group  of  men  already  there,  preparing  for 
the  dreadful  search  which  could  only  displace  his  vague  despair 
by  a  definite  horror ;  for  the  gardener,  in  his  restless  anxiety, 
had  been  unable  to  defer  this  until  other  means  of  search  had 
proved  vain.  The  pool  was  not  now  laughing  with  sparkles 
among  the  water-lilies.  It  looked  black  and  cruel  under  the 
sombre  sky,  as  if  its  cold  depths  held  relentlessly  all  the  mur¬ 
dered  hope  and  joy  of  Maynard  Gilfil’s  life. 

Thoughts  of  the  sad  consequences  for  others  as  well  as  him¬ 
self  were  crowding  on  his  mind.  The  blinds  and  shutters 
were  all  closed  in  front  of  the  Manor,  and  it  was  not  likely 
that  Sir  Christopher  would  be  aware  of  anything  that  was 
passing  outside :  but  Mr.  Gilfil  felt  that  Caterina’s  disappear¬ 
ance  could  not  long  be  concealed  from  him.  The  coroner’s 
inquest  would  be  held  shortly ;  she  would  be  inquired  for,  and 
then  it  would  be  inevitable  that  the  Baronet  should  know  all. 


196 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  XVIIL 

At  twelve  o’clock,  when  all  search  and  inquiry  had  been  in 
vain,  and  the  coroner  was  expected  every  moment,  Mr.  Gilfil 
could  no  longer  defer  the  hard  duty  of  revealing  this  fresh 
calamity  to  Sir  Christopher,  who  must  otherwise  have  it 
discovered  to  him  abruptly. 

The  Baronet  was  seated  in  his  dressing-room,  where  the 
dark  window-curtains  were  drawn  so  as  to  admit  only  a  sombre 
light.  It  was  the  first  time  Mr.  Gilfil  had  had  an  interview 
with  him  this  morning,  and  he  was  struck  to  see  how  a  single 
day  and  night  of  grief  had  aged  the  fine  old  man.  The  lines 
in  his  brow  and  about  his  mouth  were  deepened ;  his  complex¬ 
ion  looked  dull  and  withered  ;  there  was  a  swollen  ridge  under 
his  eyes ;  and  the  eyes  themselves,  which  used  to  cast  so  keen 
a  glance  on  the  present,  had  the  vacant  expression  which  tells 
that  vision  is  no  longer  a  sense,  but  a  memory. 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  Maynard,  who  pressed  it,  and  sat 
down  beside  him  in  silence.  Sir  Christopher's  heart  began  to 
swell  at  this  unspoken  sympathy  ;  the  tears  would  rise,  would 
roll  in  great  drops  down  his  cheeks.  The  first  tears  he  had 
shed  since  boyhood  were  for  Anthony. 

Maynard  felt  as  if  his  tongue  were  glued  to  the  roof  of  his 
mouth.  He  could  not  speak  first :  he  must  wait  until  Sir 
Christopher  said  something  which  might  lead  on  to  the  cruel 
words  that  must  be  spoken. 

At  last  the  Baronet  mastered  himself  enough  to  say,  “Pin 
very  weak,  Maynard  ■ —  God  help  me  !  I  did  n’t  think  any¬ 
thing  would  unman  me  in  this  way ;  but  I ’d  built  everything 
on  that  lad.  Perhaps  I  We  been  wrong  in  not  forgiving  my 
sister.  She  lost  one  of  her  sons  a  little  while  ago.  I  ;ve  been 
too  proud  and  obstinate.” 

“  We  can  hardly  learn  humility  and  tenderness  enough  ex¬ 
cept  by  suffering,”  said  Maynard  j  “and  God  sees  we  are  in 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY.  197 

need  of  suffering,  for  it  is  falling  more  and  more  heavily  on 
us.  We  have  a  new  trouble  this  morning.” 

“  Tina  ?  ”  said  Sir  Christopher,  looking  up  anxiously  —  “  is 
Tina  ill  ?  ” 

“  I  am  in  dreadful  uncertainty  about  her.  She  was  very 
much  agitated  yesterday  —  and  with  her  delicate  health  —  I 
am  afraid  to  think  what  turn  the  agitation  may  have  taken.” 

“  Is  she  delirious,  poor  dear  little  one  ?  ” 

“  God  only  knows  how  she  is.  We  are  unable  to  find  her. 
When  Mrs.  Sharp  went  up  to  her  room  this  morning,  it  was 
empty.  She  had  not  been  in  bed.  Her  hat  and  cloak  were 
gone.  I  have  had  search  made  for  her  everywhere  —  in  the 
house  and  garden,  in  the  park,  and  —  in  the  water.  No  one 
has  seen  her  since  Martha  went  up  to  light  her  fire  at  seven 
o’clock  in  the  evening.” 

While  Mr.  Gilfil  was  speaking,  Sir  Christopher’s  eyes, 
which  were  eagerly  turned  on  him,  recovered  some  of  their 
old  keenness,  and  some  sudden  painful  emotion,  as  at  a  new 
thought,  flitted  rapidly  across  his  already  agitated  face,  like 
the  shadow  of  a  dark  cloud  over  the  waves.  When  the  pause 
came,  he  laid  his  hand  on  Mr.  Gilfil’s  arm,  and  said  in  a  lo\ror 
voice  — 

“  Maynard,  did  that  poor  thing  love  Anthony  ?  ” 

“  She  did.” 

Maynard  hesitated  after  these  words,  struggling  between  his 
reluctance  to  inflict  a  yet  deeper  wound  on  Sir  Christopher, 
and  his  determination  that  no  injustice  should  be  done  to 
Caterina.  Sir  Christopher’s  eyes  were  still  fixed  on  him  in 
solemn  inquiry,  and  his  own  sunk  towards  the  ground,  while 
he  tried  to  find  the  words  that  would  tell  the  truth  least 
cruelly. 

“  You  must  not  have  any  wrong  thoughts  about  Tina,”  he 
said  at  length.  “  I  must  tell  you  now,  for  her  sake,  what 
nothing  but  this  should  ever  have  caused  to  pass  my  lips. 
Captain  Wybrow  won  her  affections  by  attentions  which,  in 
his  position,  he  was  bound  not  to  show  her.  Before  his  mar¬ 
riage  was  talked  of,  he  had  behaved  to  her  like  a  lover.” 

Sir  Christopher  relaxed  his  hold  of  Maynard’s  arm,  and 


198 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


\ooked  away  from  him.  He  was  silent  for  some  minutes, 
evidently  attempting  to  master  himself,  so  as  to  be  able  to 
speak  calmly. 

“I  must  see  Henrietta  immediately,”  he  said  at  last,  with 
something  of  his  old  sharp  decision;  “she  must  know  all; 
but  we  must  keep  it  from  every  one  else  as  far  as  possible. 
My  dear  boy,”  he  continued  in  a  kinder  tone,  “  the  heaviest 
burthen  has  fallen  on  you.  But  we  may  find  her  yet;  we 
must  not  despair :  there  has  not  been  time  enough  for  us  to 
be  certain.  Poor  dear  little  one  !  God  help  me !  I  thought 
I  saw  everything,  and  was  stone-blind  all  the  while.” 


* 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

The  sad  slow  week  was  gone  by  at  last.  At  the  coroner’s 
inquest  a  verdict  of  sudden  death  had  been  pronounced.  Dr. 
Hart,  acquainted  with  Captain  Wybrow’s  previous  state  of 
health,  had  given  his  opinion  that  death  had  been  imminent 
from  long-established  disease  of  the  heart,  though  it  had  proba¬ 
bly  been  accelerated  by  some  unusual  emotion.  Miss  Assher 
was  the  only  person  who  positively  knew  the  motive  that  had 
led  Captain  Wybrow  to  the  Bookery ;  but  she  had  not  men¬ 
tioned  Caterina’s  name,  and  all  painful  details  or  inquiries 
were  studiously  kept  from  her.  Mr.  Gilfil  and  Sir  Christopher, 
however,  knew  enough  to  conjecture  that  the  fatal  agitation 
was  due  to  an  appointed  meeting  with  Caterina. 

All  search  and  inquiry  after  her  had  been  fruitless,  and  were 
the  more  likely  to  be  so  because  they  were  carried  on  under 
the  prepossession  that  she  had  committed  suicide.  No  one 
noticed  the  absence  of  the  trifles  she  had  taken  from  her  desk ; 
no  one  knew  of  the  likeness,  or  that  she  had  hoarded  her 
seven-shilling  pieces,  and  it  was  not  remarkable  that  she 
should  have  happened  to  be  wearing  the  pearl  earrings.  She 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY 


19& 


had  left  the  house,  they  thought,  taking  nothing  with  her ;  it 
seemed  impossible  she  could  have  gone  far ;  and  she  must  have 
been  in  a  state  of  mental  excitement,  that  made  it  too  probable 
she  had  only  gone  to  seek  relief  in  death.  The  same  places 
within  three  or  four  miles  of  the  Manor  were  searched  again 
and  again  —  every  pond,  every  ditch  in  the  neighborhood  was 
examiued. 

Sometimes  Maynard  thought  that  death  might  have  come  on 
unsought,  from  cold  and  exhaustion  ;  and  not  a  day  passed  but 
he  wandered  through  the  neighboring  woods,  turning  up  the 
heaps  of  dead  leaves,  as  if  it  were  possible  her  dear  body  could 
be  hidden  there.  Then  another  horrible  thought  recurred,  and 
before  each  night  came  he  had  been  again  through  all  the  un 
inhabited  rooms  of  the  house,  to  satisfy  himself  once  more 
that  she  was  not  hidden  behind  some  cabinet,  or  door,  or  cur¬ 
tain  —  that  he  should  not  find  her  there  with  madness  in  her 
eyes,  looking  and  looking,  and  yet  not  seeing  him. 

But  at  last  those  five  long  days  and  nights  were  at  an  end, 
the  funeral  was  over,  and  the  carriages  were  returning  through 
the  park.  When  they  had  set  out,  a  heavy  rain  was  falling ; 
but  now  the  clouds  were  breaking  up,  and  a  gleam  of  sunshine 
was  sparkling  among  the  dripping  boughs  under  which  they 
were  passing.  This  gleam  fell  upon  a  man  on  horseback  who 
was  jogging  slowly  along,  and  whom  Mr.  Gilfil  recognized,  in 
•spite  of  diminished  rotundity,  as  Daniel  Knott,  the  coachman 
who  had  married  the  rosy-cheeked  Dorcas  ten  years  before. 

Every  new  incident  suggested  the  same  thought  to  Mr. 
Gilfil ;  and  his  eye  no  sooner  fell  on  Knott  than  he  said  to 
himself,  “  Can  he  be  come  to  tell  us  anything  about  Caterina  ?  ” 
Then  he  remembered  that  Caterina  had  been  very  fond  of 
Dorcas,  and  that  she  always  had  some  present  ready  to  send 
her  when  Knott  paid  an  occasional  visit  to  the  Manor.  Could 
Tina  have  gone  to  Dorcas  ?  But  his  heart  sank  again  as  he 
thought,  very  likely  Knott  had  only  come  because  he  had 
heard  of  Captain  Wybrow’s  death,  and  wanted  to  know  how 
his  old  master  had  borne  the  blow. 

As  soon  as  the  carriage  reached  the  house,  he  went  up  to  his 
study  and  walked  about  nervously,  longing,  but  afraid,  to  go 


200  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

down  and  speak  to  Knott,  lest  his  faint  hope  should  be  dissb 
pated.  Any  one  looking  at  that  face,  usually  so  full  of  calm 
good-will,  would  have  seen  that  the  last  week’s  suffering  had 
left  deep  traces.  By  day  he  had  been  riding  or  wandering 
incessantly,  either  searching  for  Caterina  himself,  or  directing 
inquiries  to  be  made  by  others.  By  night  he  had  not  known 
sleep  —  only  intermittent  dozing,  in  which  he  seemed  to  be 
finding  Caterina  dead,  and  woke  up  with  a  start  from  this  un¬ 
real  agony  to  the  real  anguish  of  believing  that  he  should  see 
her  no  more.  The  clear  gray  eyes  looked  sunken  and  restless, 
the  full  careless  lips  had  a  strange  tension  about  them,  and  the 
brow,  formerly  so  smooth  and  open,  was  contracted  as  if  with 
pain.  He  had  not  lost  the  object  of  a  few  months’  passion ; 
he  had  lost  the  being  who  was  bound  up  with  his  power  of 
loving,  as  the  brook  we  played  by  or  the  flowers  we  gathered 
in  childhood  are  bound  up  with  our  sense  of  beauty.  Love 
meant  nothing  for  him  but  to  love  Caterina.  For  years,  the 
thought  of  her  had  been  present  in  everything,  like  the  air 
and  the  light ;  and  now  she  was  gone,  it  seemed  as  if  all 
pleasure  had  lost  its  vehicle  :  the  sky,  the  earth,  the  daily  ride, 
the  daily  talk  might  be  there,  but  the  loveliness  and  the  joy 
that  were  in  them  had  gone  forever. 

Presently,  as  he  still  paced  backwards  and  forwards,  he 
heard  steps  along  the  corridor,  and  there  was  a  knock  at  his 
door.  His  voice  trembled  as  he  said  “  Come  in,”  and  the  rush 
of  renewed  hope  was  hardly  distinguishable  from  pain  when 
he  saw  Warren  enter  with  Daniel  Knott  behind  him. 

“  Knott  is  come,  sir,  with  news  of  Miss  Sarti.  I  thought  it 
best  to  bring  him  to  you  first.” 

Mr.  Gilfil  could  not  help  going  up  to  the  old  coachman  and 
wringing  his  hand  ;  but  he  was  unable  to  speak,  and  only 
motioned  to  him  to  take  a  chair,  while  Warren  left  the  room. 
He  hung  upon  Daniel’s  moon-face,  and  listened  to  his  small 
piping  voice,  with  the  same  solemn  yearning  expectation  with 
which  he  would  have  given  ear  to  the  most  awful  messenger 
from  the  land  of  shades. 

u  It  war  Dorkis,  sir,  would  hev  me  come ;  but  we  knowed 
nothin’  o’  what ’s  happened  at  the  Manor.  She ’s  frightened 


201 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 

out  on  her  wits  about  Miss  Sarti,  an’  she  would  hev  me  saddle 
Blackbird  this  mornin’,  an’  leave  the  ploughin’,  to  come  an  let 
Sir  Christifer  an’  my  lady  know.  P’raps  you’ve  beared,  sii, 
we  don’t  keep  the  Cross  Keys  at  Sloppeter  now ;  a  uncle  o’ 
mine  died  three  ’ear  ago,  an’  left  me  a  leggicy.  He  was  bailiff 
to  Squire  Ramble,  as  lied  them  there  big  .  farms  on  his  hans  ; 
an’  so  we  took  a  little  farm  o’  forty  acres  or  thereabouts,  becos 
Dorkis  didn’t  like  the  public  when  she  got  moithered  wi’ 
children.  As  pritty  a  place  as  iver  you  see,  sir,  wi’  water  at 

the  back  convenent  for  the  cattle.” 

“For  God’s  sake,”  said  Maynard,  “tell  me  what  it  is  about 

Miss  Sarti.  Don’t  stay  to  tell  me  anything  else  now.” 

« Well,  sir,”  said  Knott,  rather  frightened  by  the  parson’s 
vehemence,  “she  come  t’  our  house  i’  the  carrier’s  cart  o’ 
Wednesday,  when  it  was  welly  nine  o’clock  at  night  ;  and 
Dorkis  run  out,  for  she  heared  the  cart  stop,  an’  Miss  Sarti 
throwed  her  arms  roun’  Dorkis’s  neck  an’  says,  ‘Tek  me  in, 
Dorkis,  tek  me  in,’  an’  went  off  into  a  swoon d,  like.  An’ 
Dorkis  calls  out  to  me,  —  ‘  Dannel,’  she  calls  —  an’  I  run  out 
and  carried  the  young  miss  in,  an’  she  come  roun’  arter  a  bit, 
an’  opened  her  eyes,  and  Dorkis  got  her  to  drink  a  spoonful  o 
rum-an’-water  —  we ’ve  got  some  capital  rum  as  we  brought 
from  the  Cross  Keys,  and  Dorkis  won’t  let  nobody  drink  it. 
She  says  she  keeps  it  for  sickness  ;  but  for  my  part,  I  think 
it ’s  a  pity  to  drink  good  rum  when  your  mouth ’s  out  o’  taste  ; 
you  may  just  as  well  hev  doctor’s  stuff.  However,  Dorkis  got 
her  to  bed,  an’  there  she ’s  lay  iver  sin’,  stoopid  like,  an’  mver 
speaks,  an’  on’y  teks  little  bits  an’  sups  when  Dorkis  coaxes 
her.  An’  we  begun  to  be  frightened,  and  could  n’t  think  what 
had  made  her  come  away  from  the  Manor,  and  Dorkis  was 
afeared  there  was  summat  wrong.  So  this  mornin’  she  could 
hold  no  longer,  an’  would  hev  no  nay  but  I  must  come  an  see ; 
an’  so  I ’ve  rode  twenty  mile  upo’  Blackbird,  as  thinks  all  the 
while  he ’s  a-ploughin’,  an’  turns  sharp  roun’,  every  tliiity 
yards,  as  if  he  was  at  the  end  of  a  furrow.  I ’ve  hed  a  sore 

time  wi’  him,  I  can  tell  you,  sir.”  . 

“God  bless  you,  Knott,  for  coming!”  said  Mr.  Gilfil, 

wringing  the  old  coachman’s  hand  again.  “Now  go  dowi/ 


202 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


and  have  something  and  rest  yourself.  You  will  stay  here  to¬ 
night,  and  by-and-by  I  shall  come  to  you  to  learn  the  nearest 
way  to  your  house.  I  shall  get  ready  to  ride  there  imme¬ 
diately,  when  I  have  spoken  to  Sir  Christopher.” 

In  an  hour  from  that  time  Mr.  Gilfil  was  galloping  on  a 
stout  mare  towards  the  little  muddy  village  of  Callam,  five 
miles  beyond  Sloppeter.  Once  more  he  saw  some  gladness  in 
the  afternoon  sunlight ;  once  more  it  was  a  pleasure  to  see 
the  hedgerow  trees  flying  past  him,  and  to  be  conscious  of  a 
“  good  seat  ”  while  his  black  Kitty  bounded  beneath  him,  and 
the  air  whistled  to  the  rhythm  of  her  pace.  Caterina  was 
not  dead ;  he  had  found  her ;  his  love  and  tenderness  and 
long-suffering  seemed  so  strong,  they  must  recall  her  to  life 
and  happiness.  After  that  week  of  despair,  the  rebound  was 
so  violent  that  it  carried  his  hopes  at  once  as  far  as  the  utmost 
mark  they  had  ever  reached.  Caterina  would  come  to  love 
him  at  last ;  she  would  be  his.  They  had  been  carried  through 
all  that  dark  and  weary  way  that  she  might  know  the  depth 
of  his  love.  How  he  would  cherish  her  —  his  little  bird  with 
the  timid  bright  eye,  and  the  sweet  throat  that  trembled  with 
love  and  music  !  She  would  nestle  against  him,  and  the  poor 
little  breast  which  had  been  so  ruffled  and  bruised  should  be 
safe  forevermore.  In  the  love  of  a  brave  and  faithful  man 
there  is  always  a  strain  of  maternal  tenderness ;  he  gives  out 
again  those  beams  of  protecting  fondness  which  were  shed  on 
him  as  he  lay  on  his  mother’s  knee. 

It  was  twilight  as  he  entered  the  village  of  Callam,  and, 
asking  a  homeward-bound  laborer  the  way  to  Daniel  Knott’s, 
learned  that  it  was  by  the  church,  which  showed  its  stumpy 
ivy-clad  spire  on  a  slight  elevation  of  ground ;  a  useful  addi¬ 
tion  to  the  means  of  identifying  that  desirable  homestead 
afforded  by  Daniel’s  description  —  ee  the  prittiest  place  iver  you 
see  ”  —  though  a  small  cow-yard  full  of  excellent  manure,  and 
leading  right  up  to  the  door,  without  any  frivolous  interrup¬ 
tion  from  garden  or  railing,  might  perhaps  have  been  enough 
to  make  that  description  unmistakably  specific. 

Mr.  Gilfil  had  no  sooner  reached  the  gate  leading  into  the 
cow-yard,  than  he  was  descried  by  a  flaxen-haired  lad  of  nine. 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


203 


_jrematurely  invested  with  the  toga  virilis,  or  smock-frock,  who 
ran  forward  to  let  in  the  unusual  visitor.  In  a  moment  Dorcas 
was  at  the  door,  the  roses  on  her  cheeks  apparently  all  the 
redder  for  the  three  pair  of  cheeks  which  formed  a  group 
round  her,  and  for  the  very  fat  baby  who  stared  in  her  arms, 
and  sucked  a  long  crust  with  calm  relish. 

“  Is  it  Mr.  Gilfil,  sir  ?  ”  said  Dorcas,  curtsying  low  as  he  made 
his  way  through  the  damp  straw,  after  tying  up  his  horse. 

“  Yes,  Dorcas ;  I  ’in  grown  out  of  your  knowledge.  How  is 
Miss  Sarti  ?  ” 

“  J ust  for  all  the  world  the  same,  sir,  as  I  suppose  Dannel ’s 
told  you ;  for  I  reckon  you  ’ve  come  from  the  Manor,  though 
you  he  come  uncommon  quick,  to  be  sure.” 

“  Yes,  he  got  to  the  Manor  about  one  o’clock,  and  I  set  off 
as  soon  as  I  could.  She ’s  not  worse,  is  she  ?  ” 

“No  change,  sir,  for  better  or  wuss.  Will  you  please  to 
walk  in,  sir  ?  She  lies  there  takin’  no  notice  o’  nothin’,  no 
more  nor  a  baby  as  is  on’y  a  week  old,  an’  looks  at  me  as 
blank  as  if  she  did  n’t  know  me.  Oh,  what  can  it  be,  Mr.  Gil¬ 
fil  ?  How  come  she  to  leave  the  Manor  ?  How ’s  his  honor 
an’  my  lady  ?  ” 

“In  great  trouble,  Dorcas.  Captain  Wybrow,  Sir  Christo¬ 
pher’s  nephew,  you  know,  has  died  suddenly.  Miss  Sarti 
found  him  lying  dead,  and  I  think  the  shock  has  affected  her 
mind.” 

“  Eh,  dear  !  that  fine  young  gentleman  as  was  to  be  th’  heir, 
as  Dannel  told  me  about.  I  remember  seein’  him  when  he  was 
a  little  un,  a-visitin’  at  the  Manor.  Well-a-day,  what  a  grief 
to  his  honor  and  my  lady.  But  that  poor  Miss  Tina  —  an’  she 
found  him  a-lyin’  dead  ?  Oh  dear,  oh  dear  !  ” 

Dorcas  had  led  the  way  into  the  best  kitchen,  as  charming  a 
room  as  best  kitchens  used  to  be  in  farmhouses  which  had  no 
parlors  —  the  fire  reflected  in  a  bright  row  of  pewter  plates 
and  dishes ;  the  sand-scoured  deal  tables  so  clean  you  longed 
to  stroke  them ;  the  salt-coffer  in  one  chimney-corner,  and  a 
three-cornered  chair  in  the  other,  the  walls  behind  handsomely 
tapestried  with  flitches  of  bacon,  and  the  ceiling  ornamented 
with  pendent  hams. 


204 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


“  Sit  ye  down,  sir  —  do,”  said  Dorcas,  moving  the  three- 
cornered  chair,  “  an’  let  me  get  you  somethin’  after  your  long 
journey.  Here,  Becky,  come  an’  tek  the  baby.” 

Becky,  a  red- armed  damsel,  emerged  from  the  adjoining  back- 
kitchen,  and  possessed  herself  of  baby,  whose  feelings  or  fat 
made  him  conveniently  apathetic  under  the  transference. 

“  What  ’ll  you  please  to  tek,  sir,  as  I  can  give  you  ?  I  ’ll 
get  you  a  rasher  o’  bacon  i’  no  time,  an’  I ’ve  got  some  tea,  or 
belike  you ’d  tek  a  glass  o’  rum-an’-water.  I  know  we ’ve  got 
nothin’  as  you  ’re  used  t’  eat  and  drink ;  but  such  as  I  heV,  sir, 
I  shall  be  proud  to  give  you.” 

“  Thank  you,  Dorcas ;  I  can’t  eat  or  drink  anything.  I ’m 
not  hungry  or  tired.  Let  us  talk  about  Tina.  Has  she  spoken 
at  all?” 

“ Niver  since  the  fust  words.  ‘  Dear  Dorkis,’  says  she^  ‘tek 
me  in;  ’  an’  then  went  off  into  a  faint,  an’  not  a  word  has  she 
spoken  since.  I  get  her  t’  eat  little  bits  an’  sups  o’  things,  but 
she  teks  no  notice  o’  nothin’.  I ’ve  took  up  Bessie  wi’  me  now 
an’  then  ”  —  here  Dorcas  lifted  to  her  lap  a  curly-lieaded  little 
girl  of  three,  who  was  twisting  a  corner  of  her  mother’s  apron, 
and  opening  round  eyes  at  the  gentleman  —  “  folks  ’ll  tek 
notice  o’  children  sometimes  when  they  won’t  o’  nothin’  else. 
An’  we  gethered  the  autumn  crocuses  out  o’  th’  orchard,  and 
Bessie  carried  ’em  up  in  her  hand,  an’  put  ’em  on  the  bed.  I 
knowed  how  fond  Miss  Tina  was  o’  flowers  an’  them  things, 
when  she  was  a  little  un.  But  she  looked  at  Bessie  an’  the 
flowers  just  the  same  as  if  she  did  n’t  see  ’em.  It  cuts  me 
to  th’  heart  to  look  at  them  eyes  o’  hers ;  I  think  they  ’re 
bigger  nor  iver,  an’  they  look  like  my  poor  baby’s  as  died, 
when  it  got  so  thin  —  oh  dear,  it ’s  little  hands  you  could 
see  thro’  ’em.  But  I ’ve  great  hopes  if  she  was  to  see  you, 
sir,  as  come  from  the  Manor,  it  might  bring  back  her  mind, 
like.” 

Maynard  had  that  hope  too,  but  he  felt  cold  mists  of  fear 
gathering  round  him  after  the  few  bright  warm  hours  of  joyful 
confidence  which  had  passed  since  he  first  heard  that  Caterina 
was  alive.  The  thought  ivould  urge  itself  upon  him  that  her 
mind  and  body  might  never  recover  the  strain  that  had  been 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY.  205 

put  upon  them  —  that  her  delicate  thread  of  life  had  already 
nearly  spun  itself  out. 

“  Go  now,  Dorcas,  and  see  how  she  is,  but  don’t  say  anything 
about  my  being  here.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  for  me  to 
wait  till  daylight  before  I  see  her,  and  yet  it  would  be  very 
hard  to  pass  another  night  in  this  way.” 

Dorcas  set  down  little  Bessie,  and  went  away.  The  three 
other  children,  including  young  Daniel  in  his  smock-frock, 
were  standing  opposite  to  Mr.  Gilfil,  watching  him  still  more 
shyly  now  they  were  without  their  mother’s  countenance.  He 
drew  little  Bessie  towards  him,  and  set  her  on  his  knee.  She 
shook  her  yellow  curls  out  of  her  eyes,  and  looked  up  at  him 
as  she  said  — 

“  Zoo  tome  to  tee  ze  yady  ?  Zoo  mek  her  peak  ?  What 
zoo  do  to  her  ?  Tiss  her  ?  ” 

a  Do  you  like  to  be  kissed,  Bessie  ?  ” 

“  Det,”  said  Bessie,  immediately  ducking  down  her  head 
very  low,  in  resistance  to  the  expected  rejoinder. 

“ We’ve  got  two  pups,”  said  young  Daniel,  emboldened  by 
observing  the  gentleman’s  amenities  towards  Bessie.  “  Shall 
I  show  ’em  yer  ?  One ’s  got  white  spots.” 

“  Yes,  let  me  see  them.” 

Daniel  ran  out,  and  presently  reappeared  with  two  blind 
puppies,  eagerly  followed  by  the  mother,  affectionate  though 
mongrel,  and  an  exciting  scene  was  beginning  when  Dorcas 
returned  and  said  — 

“  There ’s  niver  any  difference  in  her  hardly.  I  think  you 
need  n’t  wait,  sir.  She  lies  very  still,  as  she  al’ys  does.  I ’ve 
put  two  candles  i’  the  room,  so  as  she  may  see  you  well. 
You  ’ll  please  t’  excuse  the  room,  sir,  an’  the  cap  as  she  has 
on ;  it ’s  one  o’  mine.” 

Mr.  Gilfil  nodded  silently,  and  rose  to  follow  her  up-stairs. 
They  turned  in  at  the  first  door,  their  footsteps  making  little 
noise  on  the  plaster  floor.  The  red-checkered  linen  curtains 
were  drawn  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  and  Dorcas  had  placed  the 
candles  on  this  side  of  the  room,  so  that  the  light  might  not 
fall  oppressively  on  Caterina’s  eyes.  When  she  had  opened  the 
door,  Dorcas  whispered,  “  I ’d  better  leave  you,  sir,  I  think  ?  ” 


206 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


Mr.  Gilfil  motioned  assent,  and  advanced  beyond  the  cur¬ 
tain.  Caterina  lay  with  her  eyes  turned  the  other  way,  and 
seemed  unconscious  that  any  one  had  entered.  Her  eyes,  as 
Dorcas  had  said,  looked  larger  than  ever,  perhaps  because  her 
face  was  thinner  and  paler,  and  her  hair  quite  gathered  away 
under  one  of  Dorcas’s  thick  caps.  The  small  hands,  too,  that 
lay  listlessly  on  the  outside  of  the  bed-clothes  were  thinner 
than  ever.  She  looked  younger  than  she  really  was,  and  any 
one  seeing  the  tiny  face  and  hands  for  the  first  time  might 
have  thought  they  belonged  to  a  little  girl  of  twelve,  who  was 
being  taken  away  from  coming  instead  of  past  sorrow. 

When  Mr.  Gilfil  advanced  and  stood  opposite  to  her,  the 
light  fell  full  upon  his  face.  A  slight  startled  expression 
came  over  Caterina’s  eyes ;  she  looked  at  him  earnestly  for  a 
few  moments,  then  lifted  up  her  hand  as  if  to  beckon  him  to 
stoop  down  towards  her,  and  whispered  “  Maynard !  ” 

He  seated  himself  on  the  bed,  and  stooped  down  towards  her. 
She  whispered  again  — 

“  Maynard,  did  you  see  the  dagger  ?  ” 

He  followed  his  first  impulse  in  answering  her,  and  it  was  a 
wise  one. 

“  Yes,”  he  whispered,  “  I  found  it  in  your  pocket,  and  put 
it  back  again  in  the  cabinet.” 

He  took  her  hand  in  his  and  held  it  gently,  awaiting  what 
she  would  say  next.  His  heart  swelled  so  with  thankfulness 
that  she  had  recognized  him,  he  could  hardly  repress  a  sob. 
Gradually  her  eyes  became  softer  and  less  intense  in  their 
gaze.  The  tears  were  slowly  gathering,  and  presently  some 
large  hot  drops  rolled  down  her  cheek.  Then  the  flood-gates 
were  opened,  and  the  heart-easing  stream  gushed  forth ;  deep 
Bobs  came  ;  and  for  nearly  an  hour  she  lay  without  speaking, 
while  the  heavy  icy  pressure  that  withheld  her  misery  from 
utterance  was  thus  melting  away.  How  precious  these  tears 
were  to  Maynard,  who  day  after  day  had  been  shuddering  at 
the  continually  recurring  image  of  Tina  with  the  dry  scorch¬ 
ing  stare  of  insanity  ! 

By  degrees  the  sobs  subsided,  she  began  to  breathe  calmly, 
and  lay  quiet  with  her  eyes  shut.  Patiently  Maynard  sat* 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


207 


not  heeding  the  flight  of  the  hours,  not  heeding  the  old  clock 
that  ticked  loudly  on  the  landing.  But  when  it  was  nearly 
ten,  Dorcas,  impatiently  anxious  to  know  the  result  of  Mr. 
Gilfil’s  appearance,  could  not  help  stepping  in  on  tip-toe. 
Without  moving,  he  whispered  in  her  ear  to  supply  him  with 
candles,  see  that  the  cow-boy  had  shaken  down  his  mare,  and 
go  to  bed  —  he  would  watch  with  Caterina  —  a  great  change 
had  come  over  her. 

Before  long,  Tina’s  lips  began  to  move.  “  Maynard,”  she 
whispered  again.  He  leaned  towards  her,  and  she  went  on  — 

“  You  know  how  wicked  I  am,  then  ?  You  know  what  I 
meant  to  do  with  the  dagger  ?  ” 

“  Did  you  mean  to  kill  yourself,  Tina  ?  ” 

She  shook  her  head  slowly,  and  then  was  silent  for  a  long 
while.  At  last,  looking  at  him  with  solemn  eyes,  she  whis¬ 
pered,  “  To  kill  hi?n.” 

“  Tina,  my  loved  one,  you  would  never  have  done  it.  God 
saw  your  whole  heart ;  He  knows  you  would  never  harm 
a  living  thing.  He  watches  over  His  children,  and  will 
not  let  them  do  things  they  would  pray  with  their  whole 
hearts  not  to  do.  It  was  the  angry  thought  of  a  moment,  and 
He  forgives  you.” 

She  sank  into  silence  again  till  it  was  nearly  midnight. 
The  weary  enfeebled  spirit  seemed  to  be  making  its  slow  way 
with  difficulty  through  the  windings  of  thought;  and  when 
she  began  to  whisper  again,  it  was  in  reply  to  Maynard’s 
words. 

“But  I  had  had  such  wicked  feelings  for  a  long  while.  I 
was  so  angry,  and  I  hated  Miss  Assher  so,  and  I  did  n’t  care 
what  came  to  anybody,  because  I  was  so  miserable  myself.  I 
was  full  of  bad  passions.  No  one  else  was  ever  so  wicked.” 

“Yes,  Tina,  many  are  just  as  wicked.  I  often  have  very 
wicked  feelings,  and  am  tempted  to  do  wrong  things ;  but 
then  my  body  is  stronger  than  yours,  and  I  can  hide  my  feel¬ 
ings  and  resist  them  better.  They  do  not  master  me  so.  You 
have  seen  the  little  birds  when  they  are  very  young  and  just 
begin  to  fly,  how  all  their  feathers  are  ruffled  when  they  are 
frightened  or  angry ;  they  have  no  power  over  themselves  left, 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


268 

and  might  fall  into  a  pit  from  mere  fright.  Yon  were  lik6 
one  of  those  little  birds.  Your  sorrow  and  suffering  had 
taken  such  hold  of  you,  you  hardly  knew  what  you  did.” 

He  would  not  speak  long,  lest  he  should  tire  her,  and 
oppress  her  with  too  many  thoughts.  Long  pauses  seemed 
needful  for  her  before  she  could  concentrate  her  feelings  in 
short  words. 

“But  when  I  meant  to  do  it,”  was  the  next  thing  she 
whispered,  “it  was  as  bad  as  if  I  had  done  it.” 

“No,  my  Tina,”  answered  Maynard,  slowly,  waiting  a  little 
between  each  sentence  ;  “  we  mean  to  do  wicked  things  that 
we  never  could  do,  just  as  we  mean  to  do  good  or  clever  things 
that  we  never  could  do.  Our  thoughts  are  often  worse  than 
we  are,  just  as  they  are  often  better  than  we  are.  And  God 
sees  us  as  we  are  altogether,  not  in  separate  feelings  or  actions, 
as  our  fellow-men  see  us.  We  are  always  doing  each  other  in¬ 
justice,  and  thinking  better  or  worse  of  each  other  than  we 
deserve,  because  we  only  hear  and  see  separate  words  and 
actions.  We  don’t  see  each  other’s  whole  nature.  But  God 
sees  that  you  could  not  have  committed  that  crime.” 

Caterina  shook  her  head  slowly,  and  was  silent.  After  a 
while  — 

“  I  don’t  know,”  she  said ;  “  I  seemed  to  see  him  coming 
towards  me,  just  as  he  would  really  have  looked,  and  I  meant 
—  I  meant  to  do  it.” 

“  But  when  you  saw  him  —  tell  me  how  it  was,  Tina  ?  ” 

“  I  saw  him  lying  on  the  ground  and  thought  he  was  ill.  I 
don’t  know  how  it  was  then  ;  I  forgot  everything.  I  knelt 
down  and  spoke  to  him,  and  —  and  he  took  no  notice  of  me, 
and  his  eyes  were  fixed,  and  I  began  to  think  he  was  dead.” 

“  And  you  have  never  felt  angry  since  ?  ” 

“  Oh  no,  no ;  it  is  I  who  have  been  more  wicked  than  any 
one  ;  it  is  I  who  have  been  wrong  all  through.” 

“No,  Tina;  the  fault  has  not  all  been  yours ;  he  was  wrong; 
ae  gave  you  provocation.  And  wrong  makes  wrong.  When 
people  use  us  ill,  we  can  hardly  help  having  ill  feeling  towards 
them.  But  that  second  wrong  is  more  excusable.  I  am  more 
sinful  than  you,  Tina;  I  have  often  had  very  bad  feelings 


209 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY,, 

towards  Captain  Wybrow ;  and  if  he  had  provoked  me  as  he  did 
you,  I  should  perhaps  have  done  something  more  wicked.” 

“  Oh,  it  was  not  so  wrong  in  him  ;  he  did  n’t  know  how  he 
hurt  me.  How  was  it  likely  he  could  love  me  as  I  loved  him  ? 
And  how  could  he  marry  a  poor  little  thing  like  me  ?  ” 

Maynard  made  no  reply  to  this,  and  there  was  again  silence 
till  Tina  said  — 

-Llien  I  was  so  deceitful  ;  they  did  n  t  know  how  wicked 
I  was.  Padroncello  did  n  t  know  ;  his  good  little  monkey  he 
used  to  call  me  ;  and  if  he  had  known,  oh,  how  naughty  he 
would  have  thought  me  !  ” 

“My  Tina,  we  have  all  our  secret  sins;  and  if  we  knew 
ourselves,  we  should  not  judge  each  other  harshly.  Sir  Chris¬ 
topher  himself  has  felt,  since  this  trouble  came  upon  him, 
that  he  has  been  too  severe  and  obstinate.” 

In  this  way  - — in  these  broken  confessions  and  answering 
words  of  comfort  *■  the  hours  wore  on,  from  the  deep  black 
night  to  the  chill  early  twilight,  and  from  early  twilight  to 
the  first  yellow  streak  of  morning  parting  the  purple  cloud. 
Mr.  Gilfil  felt  as  if  in  the  long  hours  of  that  night  the  bond 
that  united  his  love  forever  and  alone  to  Caterina  had  acquired 
fresh  strength  and  sanctity.  It  is  so  with  the  human  relations 
that  rest  on  the  deep  emotional  sympathy  of  affection  :  every 
new  day  and  night  of  joy  or  sorrow  is  a  new  ground,  a  new 
consecration,  for  the  love  that  is  nourished  by  memories  as 
well  as  hopes  —  the  love  to  which  perpetual  repetition  is  not 
a  weariness  but  a  want,  and  to  which  a  separated  joy  is  the 
beginning  of  pain. 

The  cocks  began  to  crow ;  the  gate  swung ;  there  was  a 
tramp  of  footsteps  in  the  yard,  and  Mr.  Gilfil  heard  Dorcas 
stirring.  These  sounds  seemed  to  affect  Caterina,  for  she 
looked  anxiously  at  him  and  said,  “  Maynard,  are  you  going 
away  ?  ” 

'‘No,  I  shall  stay  here  at  Callam  until  you  are  better,  and 
then  you  will  go  away  too.” 

“Never  to  the  Manor  again,  oh  no !  I  shall  live  poorly, 
and  get  my  own  bread.” 

“Well,  dearest,  you  shall  do  what  you  would  like  best. 

VOL.  IV.  14 


210 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


But  I  wish  you  could  go  to  sleep  now.  Try  to  rest  quietly, 
and  by-and-by  you  will  perhaps  sit  up  a  little.  God  has  kept 
you  in  life  in  spite  of  all  this  sorrow  ;  it  will  be  sinful  not  to 
try  and  make  the  best  of  His  gift.  Dear  Tina,  you  will  try  ; 
—  and  little  Bessie  brought  you  some  crocuses  once,  you 
didn’t  notice  the  poor  little  thing;  but  you  will  notice  her 
when  she  comes  again,  will  you  not  ?  ” 

“  I  will  try,”  whispered  Tina  humbly,  and  then  closed  her 

eyes. 

By  the  time  the  sun  was  above  the  horizon,  scattering  the 
clouds,  and  shining  with  pleasant  morning  warmth  through  the 
little  leaded  window,  Caterina  was  asleep.  Maynard  gently 
loosed  the  tiny  hand,  cheered  Dorcas  with  the  good  news,  and 
made  his  way  to  the  village  inn,  with  a  thankful  heart  that 
Tina  had  been  so  far  herself  again.  Evidently  the  sight  of  him 
had  blended  naturally  with  the  memories  in  which  her  mind 
was  absorbed,  and  she  had  been  led  on  to  an  unburthening  of 
herself  that  might  be  the  beginning  of  a  complete  restoration. 
But  her  body  was  so  enfeebled  —  her  soul  so  bruised  —  that 
the  utmost  tenderness  and  care  would  be  necessary.  The 
next  thing  to  be  done  was  to  send  tidings  to  Sir  Christopher 
and  Lady  Cheverel ;  then  to  write  and  summon  his  sister, 
under  whose  care  he  had  determined  to  place  Caterina.  The 
Manor,  even  if  she  had  been  wishing  to  return  thither,  would, 
he  knew,  be  the  most  undesirable  home  for  her  at  present : 
every  scene,  every  object  there,  was  associated  with  still  un¬ 
allayed  anguish.  If  she  were  domesticated  for  a  time  with  his 
mild  gentle  sister,  who  had  a  peaceful  home  and  a  prattling 
little  boy,  Tina  might  attach  herself  anew  to  life,  and  recover, 
partly  at  least,  the  shock  that  had  been  given  to  her  constitu¬ 
tion.  When  he  had  written  his  letters  and  taken  a  hasty 
breakfast,  he  was  soon  in  his  saddle  again,  on  his  way  to 
Sloppeter,  where  he  would  post  them,  and  seek  out  a  medical 
man,  to  whom  he  might  confide  the  moral  causes  of  Caterina’s 
enfeebled  condition. 


ME.  GJLLFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


211 


CHAPTER  XX. 

In  less  than  a  week  from  that  time,  Caterina  was  persuaded 
to  travel  in  a  comfortable  carriage,  under  the  care  of  Mr. 
Gilfil  and  his  sister,  Mrs.  Heron,  whose  soft  blue  eyes  and 
mild  manners  were  very  soothing  to  the  poor  bruised  child  — 
the  more  so  as  they  had  an  air  of  sisterly  equality  which  was 
quite  new  to  her.  Under  Lady  CheverePs  uncaressing  authori¬ 
tative  good-will  Tina  had  always  retained  a  certain  constraint 
and  awe ;  and  there  was  a  sweetness  before  unknown  in  hav¬ 
ing  a  young  and  gentle  woman,  like  an  elder  sister,  bending 
over  her  caressingly,  and  speaking  in  low  loving  tones. 

Maynard  was  almost  angry  with  himself  for  feeling  happy 
while  Tina’s  mind  and  body  were  still  trembling  on  the  verge 
of  irrecoverable  decline ;  but  the  new  delight  of  acting  as  her 
guardian  angel,  of  being  with  her  every  hour  of  the  day,  of 
devising  everything  for  her  comfort,  of  watching  for  a  ray  of 
returning  interest  in  her  eyes,  was  too  absorbing  to  leave  room 
for  alarm  or  regret. 

On  the  third  day  the  carriage  drove  up  to  the  door  of  Fox- 
holm  Parsonage,  where  the  Rev.  Arthur  Heron  presented  him¬ 
self  on  the  door-step,  eager  to  greet  his  returning  Lucy,  and 
holding  by  the  hand  a  broad-chested  tawny-haired  boy  of  five, 
who  was  smacking  a  miniature  hunting-whip  with  great  vigor. 

Nowhere  was  there  a  lawn  more  smooth-shaven,  walks  better 
swept,  or  a  porch  more  prettily  festooned  with  creepers,  than 
at  Foxholm  Parsonage,  standing  snugly  sheltered  by  beeches 
and  chestnuts  half-way  down  the  pretty  green  hill  which  was 
surmounted  by  the  church,  and  overlooking  a  village  that 
straggled  at  its  ease  among  pastures  and  meadows,  surrounded 
by  wild  hedgerows  and  broad  shadowing  trees,  as  yet  un¬ 
threatened  by  improved  methods  of  farming. 

Brightly  the  fire  shone  in  the  great  parlor,  and  brightly  in 
the  little  pink  bed-room,  which  was  to  be  Caterina’s,  because 


212 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


it  looked  away  from  the  churchyard,  and  on  to  a  farm  nome 
stead,  with  its  little  cluster  of  beehive  ricks,  and  placid  groups 
of  cows,  and  cheerful  matin  sounds  of  healthy  labor.  Mrs. 
Heron,  with  the  instinct  of  a  delicate,  impressible  woman,  had 
written  to  her  husband  to  have  this  room  prepared  for  Cater- 
ina.  Contented  speckled  hens,  industriously  scratching  for 
the  rarely  found  corn,  may  sometimes  do  more  for  a  sick  heart 
than  a  grove  of  nightingales;  there  is  something  irresistibly 
calming  in  the  unsentimental  cheeriness  of  top-knotted  pullets, 
unpetted  sheep-dogs,  and  patient  cart-horses  enjoying  a  drink 
of  muddy  water. 

In  such  a  home  as  this  parsonage,  a  nest  of  comfort,  with¬ 
out  any  of  the  stateliness  that  would  carry  a  suggestion  of 
Cheverel  Manor,  Mr.  Gilfil  was  not  unreasonable  in  hoping 
that  Caterina  might  gradually  shake  off  the  haunting  vision  of 
the  past,  and  recover  from  the  languor  and  feebleness  which 
were  the  physical  sign  of  that  vision’s  blighting  presence. 
The  next  thing  to  be  done  was  to  arrange  an  exchange  of 
duties  with  Mr.  Heron’s  curate,  that  Maynard  might  be  con¬ 
stantly  near  Caterina,  and  watch  over  her  progress.  She 
seemed  to  like  him  to  be  with  her,  to  look  uneasily  for  his 
return ;  and  though  she  seldom  spoke  to  him,  she  was  most 
contented  when  he  sat  by  her,  and  held  her  tiny  hand  in  his 
large  protecting  grasp.  But  Oswald,  alias  Ozzy,  the  broad- 
chested  boy,  was  perhaps  her  most  beneficial  companion. 
With  something  of  his  uncle’s  person,  he  had  inherited  also 
his  uncle’s  early  taste  for  a  domestic  menagerie,  and  was  very 
imperative  in  demanding  Tina’s  sympathy  in  the  welfare  of 
his  guinea-pigs,  squirrels,  and  dormice.  With  him  she  seemed 
now  and  then  to  have  gleams  of  her  childhood  coming  athwart 
the  leaden  clouds,  and  many  hours  of  winter  went  by  the  more 
easily  for  being  spent  in  Ozzy’s  nursery. 

Mrs.  Heron  was  not  musical,  and  had  no  instrument ;  but 
one  of  Mr.  Gilfil’s  cares  was  to  procure  a  harpsichord,  and 
have  it  placed  in  the  drawing-room,  always  open,  in  the  hope 
that  some  day  the  spirit  of  music  would  be  reawakened  in 
Caterina,  and  she  would  be  attracted  towards  the  instrument. 
But  the  winter  was  almost  gone  by,  and  he  had  waited  in  vain. 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


218 


The  utmost  improvement  in  Tina  had  not  gone  beyond  pas¬ 
siveness  and  acquiescence  —  a  quiet  grateful  smile,  compliance 
with  Oswald’s  whims,  and  an  increasing  consciousness  of  what 
was  being  said  and  done  around  her.  Sometimes  she  would 
take  up  a  bit  of  woman’s  work,  but  she  seemed  too  languid  to 
persevere  in  it ;  her  fingers  soon  dropped,  and  she  relapsed 
into  motionless  reverie. 

At  last  —  it  was  one  of  those  bright  days  in  the  end  of 
February,  when  the  sun  is  shining  with  a  promise  of  approach¬ 
ing  spring.  Maynard  had  been  walking  with  her  and  Oswald 
round  the  garden  to  look  at  the  snowdrops,  and  she  was  resting 
on  the  sofa  after  the  walk.  Ozzy,  roaming  about  the  room  in 
quest  of  a  forbidden  pleasure,  came  to  the  harpsichord,  and 
struck  the  handle  of  his  whip  on  a  deep  bass  note. 

The  vibration  rushed  through  Caterina  like  an  electric 
shock :  it  seemed  as  if  at  that  instant  a  new  soul  were  enter¬ 
ing  into  her,  and  filling  her  with  a  deeper,  more  significant 
life.  She  looked  round,  rose  from  the  sofa,  and  walked  to  the 
harpsichord.  In  a  moment  her  fingers  were  wandering  with 
their  old  sweet  method  among  the  keys,  and  her  soul  was 
floating  in  its  true  familiar  element  of  delicious  sound,  as  the 
water-plant  that  lies  withered  and  shrunken  on  the  ground 
expands  into  freedom  and  beauty  when  once  more  bathed  in 
its  native  flood. 

Maynard  thanked  God.  An  active  power  was  reawakened, 
and  must  make  a  new  epoch  in  Caterina’s-  recovery. 

Presently  there  were  low  liquid  notes  blending  themselves 
with  the  harder  tones  of  the  instrument,  and  gradually  the 
pure  voice  swelled  into  predominance.  Little  Ozzy  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  with  his  mouth  open  and  his  legs  very 
wide  apart,  struck  with  something  like  awe  at  this  new  power 
in  “  Tin-Tin,”  as  he  called  her,  whom  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  think  of  as  a  playfellow  not  at  all  clever,  and  very  much 
in  need  of  his  instruction  on  many  subjects.  A  genie  soaring 
with  broad  wings  out  of  his  milk-jug  would  not  have  been 
more  astonishing. 

Caterina  was  singing  the  very  air  from  the  Orfeo  which  we 
heard  her  singing  so  many  months  ago  at  the  beginning  of  her 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


2 14 

sorrows.  It  was  Che  faro,  Sir  Christopher’s  favorite,  and  ita 
notes  seemed  to  carry  on  their  wings  all  the  tenderest  memo¬ 
ries  of  her  life,  when  Cheverel  Manor  was  still  an  untroubled 
home.  The  long  happy  days  of  childhood  and  girlhood  re¬ 
covered  all  their  rightful  predominance  over  the  short  interval 
of  sin  and  sorrow. 

She  paused,  and  burst  into  tears  —  the  first  tears  she  had 
shed  since  she  had  been  at  Foxholm.  Maynard  could  not  help 
hurrying  towards  her,  putting  his  arm  round  her,  and  leaning 
down  to  kiss  her  hair.  She  nestled  to  him,  and  put  up  her 
little  mouth  to  be  kissed. 

The  delicate-tendrilled  plant  must  have  something  to  cling 
to.  The  soul  that  was  born  anew  to  music  was  born  anew 
to  love. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

On  the  30th  of  May,  1790,  a  very  pretty  sight  was  seen 
the  villagers  assembled  near  the  door  of  Foxholm  church. 
The  sun  was  bright  upon  the  dewy  grass,  the  air  was  alive 
with  the  murmur  of  bees  and  the  trilling  of  birds,  the  bushy 
blossoming  chestnuts  and  the  foamy  flowering  hedgerows 
seemed  to  be  crowding  round  to  learn  why  the  church-bells 
were  ringing  so  merrily,  as  Maynard  Gilfil,  his  face  bright 
with  happiness,  walked  out  of  the  old  Gothic  doorway  with 
Tina  on  his  arm.  The  little  face  was  still  pale,  and  there  was 
a  subdued  melancholy  in  it,  as  of  one  who  sups  with  friends 
for  the  last  time,  and  has  his  ear  open  for  the  signal  that  will 
call  him  away.  But  the  tiny  hand  rested  with  the  pressure 
of  contented  affection  on  Maynard’s  arm,  and  the  dark  eyes 
met  his  downward  glance  with  timid  answering  love. 

There  was  no  train  of  bridesmaids ;  only  pretty  Mrs.  Heron 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  dark-haired  young  man  hitherto  un¬ 
known  in  Foxholm,  and  holding  by  the  other  hand  little  Ozzy, 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY.  215 

*rho  exulted  less  in  his  new  velvet  cap  and  tunic,  than  in  the 
notion  that  he  was  bridesman  to  Tin-Tin. 

Last  of  all  came  a  couple  whom  the  villagers  eyed  yet  more 
eagerly  than  the  bride  and  bridegroom :  a  line  old  gentleman, 
who  looked  round  with  keen  glances  that  cowed  the  conscious 
scapegraces  among  them,  and  a  stately  lady  in  blue-and-white 
silk  robes,  who  must  surely  be  like  Queen  Charlotte. 

“  Well,  that  theer ’s  whut  I  call  a  pictur,”  said  old  “Mester  ” 
Ford,  a  true  Staffordshire  patriarch,  who  leaned  on  a  stick  and 
held  his  head  very  much  on  one  side,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
had  little  hope  of  the  present  generation,  but  would  at  all 
events  give  it  the  benefit  of  his  criticism.  “  Th’  yoong  men 
noo-a-deys,  the ’re  poor  squashy  things  —  the’  looke  well  anoof, 
but  the’  woon’t  wear,  the’  woon’t  wear.  Theer ’s  ne’er  un  ’ll 
carry  his  ’ears  like  that  Sir  Cris’fer  Chuvrell.” 

“’Ull  bet  ye  two  pots,”  said  another  of  the  seniors,  “as 
that  yoongster  a- walkin’  wi’  th’  parson’s  wife  ’ll  be  Sir  Cris’- 
fer’s  son  —  he  favors  him.” 

“Nay,  yae  ’ll  bet  that  wi’  as  big  a  fule  as  yersen  ;  hae ’s  noo 
son  at  all.  As  I  oonderstan’,  hae ’s  the  nevey  as  is  t’  heir  th’ 
esteate.  The  coochman  as  puts  oop  at  tli’  White  Hoss  tellt 
me  as  theer  war  another  nevey,  a  deal  finer  chap  t’  looke  at 
nor  this  un,  as  died  in  a  fit,  all  on  a  soodden,  an’  soo  this  here 
yoong  un ’s  got  upo’  th’  perch  istid.” 

At  the  church  gate  Mr.  Bates  was  standing  in  a  new  suit, 
ready  to  speak  words  of  good  omen  as  the  bride  and  bride¬ 
groom  approached.  He  had  come  all  the  way  from  Cheverel 
Manor  on  purpose  to  see  Miss  Tina  happy  once  more,  and 
would  have  been  in  a  state  of  unmixed  joy  but  for  the  in¬ 
feriority  of  the  wedding  nosegays  to  what  he  could  have  fur¬ 
nished  from  the  garden  at  the  Manor. 

“  God  A’maighty  bless  ye  both,  an’  send  ye  long  laife  an’ 
happiness,”  were  the  good  gardener’s  rather  tremulous  words. 

“  Thank  you,  Uncle  Bates;  always  remember  Tina,”  said 
the  sweet  low  voice,  which  fell  on  Mr.  Bates’s  ear  for  the 
iast  time. 

The  wedding  journey  was  to  be  a  circuitous  route  to  Shep- 
perton,  where  Mr.  Gilfil  had  been  for  several  months  inducted 


216 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


as  vicar.  This  small  living  had  been  given  him  through  the 
interest  of  an  old  friend  who  had  some  claim  on  the  gratitude 
of  the  Oldinport  family;  and  it  was  a  satisfaction  both  to 
Maynard  and  Sir  Christopher  that  a  home  to  which  he  might 
take  Caterina  had  thus  readily  presented  itself  at  a  distance 
from  Cheverel  Manor.  For  it  had  never  yet  been  thought  safe 
that  she  should  revisit  the  scene  of  her  sufferings,  her  health 
continuing  too  delicate  to  encourage  the  slightest  risk  of  pain¬ 
ful  excitement.  In  a  year  or  two,  perhaps,  by  the  time  old 
Mr.  Crichley,  the  rector  of  Cumbermoor,  should  have  left  a 
world  of  gout,  and  when  Caterina  would  very  likely  be  a  happy 
mother,  Maynard  might  safely  take  up  his  abode  at  Cumber¬ 
moor,  and  Tina  would  feel  nothing  but  content  at  seeing  a 
new  “  little  black-eyed  monkey ”  running  up  and  down  the 
gallery  and  gardens  of  the  Manor.  A  mother  dreads  no  mem¬ 
ories —  those  shadows  have  all  melted  away  in  the  dawn  of 
baby’s  smile. 

In  these  hopes,  and  in  the  enjoyment  of  Tina’s  nestling 
affection,  Mr.  Gilfil  tasted  a  few  months  of  perfect  happiness. 
She  had  come  to  lean  entirely  on  his  love,  and  to  find  life 
sweet  for  his  sake.  Her  continual  languor  and  want  of  active 
interest  was  a  natural  consequence  of  bodily  feebleness,  and 
the  prospect  of  her  becoming  a  mother  was  a  new  ground  for 
hoping  the  best. 

But  the  delicate  plant  had  been  too  deeply  bruised,  and  in 
the  struggle  to  put  forth  a  blossom  it  died. 

Tina  died,  and  Maynard  Gilfil’s  love  went  with  her  into 
deep  silence  forevermore. 


MR.  GILFIL’S  LOVE-STORY. 


217 


EPILOGUE. 

This  was  Mr.  Gilfil’s  love-story,  which  lay  far  back  from  the 
time  when  he  sat,  worn  and  gray,  by  his  lonely  fireside  in 
Shepperton  Vicarage.  Rich  brown  locks,  passionate  love,  and 
deep  early  sorrow,  strangely  different  as  they  seem  from  the 
scanty  white  hairs,  the  apathetic  content,  and  the  unexpectant 
quiescence  of  old  age,  are  but  part  of  the  same  life's  journey ; 
as  the  bright  Italian  plains,  with  the  sweet  Addio  of  their 
beckoning  maidens,  are  part  of  the  same  day’s  travel  that 
brings  us  to  the  other  side  of  the  mountain,  between  the 
sombre  rocky  walls  and  among  the  guttural  voices  of  the 
Valais. 

To  those  who  were  familiar  only  with  the  gray -haired  Vicar, 
jogging  leisurely  along  on  his  old  chestnut  cob,  it  would  per¬ 
haps  have  been  hard  to  believe  that  he  had  ever  been  the 
Maynard  Gilfil  who,  with  a  heart  full  of  passion  and  tender¬ 
ness,  had  urged  his  black  Kitty  to  her  swiftest  gallop  on  the 
way  to  Callam,  or  that  the  old  gentleman  of  caustic  tongue, 
and  bucolic  tastes,  and  sparing  habits,  had  known  all  the  deep 
secrets  of  devoted  love,  had  struggled  through  its  days  and 
nights  of  anguish,  and  trembled  under  its  unspeakable  joys. 
And  indeed  the  Mr.  Gilfil  of  those  late  Shepperton  days  had 
more  of  the  knots  and  ruggedness  of  poor  human  nature  than 
there  lay  any  clear  hint  of  in  the  open-eyed  loving  Maynard. 
But  it  is  with  men  as  with  trees :  if  you  lop  off  their  finest 
branches,  into  which  they  were  pouring  their  young  life-juice, 
the  wounds  will  be  healed  over  with  some  rough  boss,  some 
odd  excrescence ;  and  what  might  have  been  a  grand  tree  ex¬ 
panding  into  liberal  shade,  is  but  a  whimsical  misshapen  trunk. > 
Many  an  irritating  fault,  many  an  unlovely  oddity,  has  come 
of  a  hard  sorrow,  which  has  crushed  and  maimed  the  nature 
just  when  it  was  expanding  into  plenteous  beauty  ;  and  the 
trivial  erring  life  which  we  visit  with  our  harsh  blame,  may 


21b  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

he  but  as  tbe  unsteady  motion  of  a  man  whose  best  limb  is 
withered. 

And  so  the  dear  old  Vicar,  though  he  had  something  of  the 
knotted  whimsical  character  of  the  poor  lopped  oak,  had  yet 
been  sketched  out  by  nature  as  a  noble  tree.  The  heart  of 
him  was  sound,  the  grain  was  of  the  finest ;  and  in  the  gray- 
liaired  man  who  filled  his  pocket  with  sugar-plums  for  the 
little  children,  whose  most  biting  words  were  directed  against 
the  evil  doing  of  the  rich  man,  and  who,  with  all  his  social 
pipes  and  slipshod  talk,  never  sank  below  the  highest  level 
jf  his  parishioners’  respect,  there  was  the  main  trunk  of  the 
<same  brave,  faithful,  tender  nature,  that  had  poured  out  the 
Mnest,  freshest  forces  of  its  life-current  in  a  first  and  onlv 
love — the  love  of  Tina, 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


Janet  at  Mrs.  Pettifer’s  Door. 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


CHAPTER  L 

* ”  said  lawyer  Dempster,  in  a  loud,  rasping,  oratorical 
tone,  struggling  against  chronic  huskiness,  “as  long  as  my 
Maker  grants  me  power  of  voice  and  power  of  intellect,  I  will 
take  every  legal  means  to  resist  the  introduction  of  demoraliz¬ 
ing,  methodistical  doctrine  into  this  parish ;  I  will  not  supinely 
suffer  an  insult  to  be  inflicted  on  our  venerable  pastor,  who 
has  given  us  sound  instruction  for  half  a  century.” 

It  was  very  warm  everywhere  that  evening,  but  especially 
in  the  bar  of  the  Red  Lion  at  Milby,  where  Mr.  Dempster  was 
seated  mixing  his  third  glass  of  brandy- an d-water.  He  was  a 
tall  and  rather  massive  man,  and  the  front  half  of  his  large 
surface  was  so  well  dredged  with  snuff,  that  the  cat,  having 
inadvertently  come  near  him,  had  been  seized  with  a  sev.ere  fit 
of  sneezing  —  an  accident  which,  being  cruelly  misunderstood, 
had  caused  her  to  be  driven  contumeliously  from  the  bar.  Mr. 
Dempster  habitually  held  his  chin  tucked  in,  and  his  head 
hanging  forward,  weighed  down,  perhaps,  by  a  preponderant 
occiput  and  a  bulging  forehead,  between  which  his  closely 
clipped  coronal  surface  lay  like  a  flat  and  new-mown  table¬ 
land.  The  only  other  observable  features  were  puffy  cheeks 
and  a  protruding  yet  lipless  mouth.  Of  his  nose  I  can  only 
say  that  it  was  snuffy ;  and  as  Mr.  Dempster  was  never  caught 
in  the  act  of  looking  at  anything  in  particular,  it  would  have 
been  difficult  to  swear  to  the  color  of  his  eyes. 

“Well!  I’ll  not  stick  at  giving  ?rcyself  trouble  to  put  down 
such  hypocritical  cant,”  said  Mr.  Tomlinson,  the  rich  miller 


222 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


“  I  know  well  enough  what  your  Sunday  evening  lectures  are 
good  for  —  for  wenches  to  meet  their  sweethearts,  and  brew 
mischief.  There ’s  work  enough  with  the  servant-maids  as  it 
is  __such  as  I  never  heard  the  like  of  in  my  mother’s  time, 
and  it’s  all  along  o’  your  schooling  and  newfangled  plans. 
Give  me  a  servant  as  can  nayther  read  nor  write,  I  say,  and 
doesn’t  know  the  year  o’  the  Lord  as  she  was  born  in.  I 
should  like  to  know  what  good  those  Sunday  schools  have 
done,  now.  Why,  the  boys  used  to  go  a  bird’s-nesting  of  a 
Sunday  morning;  and  a  capital  thing  too  —  ask  any  farmer; 
and  very  pretty  it  was  to  see  the  strings  o’  heggs  hanging 
up  in  poor  people’s  houses.  You  ’ll  not  see  ’em  nowhere 
now.” 

“  Pooh  !  ”  said  Mr.  Luke  Byles,  who  piqued  himself  on  his 
reading,  and  was  in  the  habit  of  asking  casual  acquaintances 
if  they  knew  anything  of  Hobbes ;  “  it  is  right  enough  that 
the  lower  orders  should  be  instructed.  But  this  sectarianism 
within  the  Church  ought  to  be  put  down.  In  point  of  fact, 
these  Evangelicals  are  not  Churchmen  at  all ;  they  ’re  no 
better  than  Presbyterians.” 

‘‘Presbyterians?  what  are  they?”  inquired  Mr.  Tomlinson, 
who  often  said  his  father  had  given  him  “  no  eddication,  and 
he  did  n’t  care  who  knowed  it ;  he  could  buy  up  most  o’  th’ 
eddicated  men  he’d  ever  come  across.” 

“  The  Presbyterians,”  said  Mr.  Dempster,  in  rather  a  louder 
tone  than  before,  holding  that  every  appeal  for  information 
must  naturally  be  addressed  to  him,  “are  a  sect  founded 
in  the  reign  of  Charles  I.,  by  a  man  named  John  Presbyter, 
who  hatched  all  the  brood  of  Dissenting  vermin  that  crawl 
about  in  dirty  alleys,  and  circumvent  the  lord  of  the  manor 
in  order  to  get  a  few  yards  of  ground  for  their  pigeon-house 
conventicles.” 

“No,  no,  Dempster,”  said  Mr.  Luke  Byles,  “you’re  out 
there.  Presbyterianism  is  derived  from  the  word  presbyter, 
meaning  an  elder.” 

“Don’t  contradict  me,  sir!”  stormed  Dempster.  “I  say  the 
word  presbyterian  is  derived  from  John  Presbyter,  a  misera¬ 
ble  fanatic  who  wore  a  suit  of  leather,  and  went  about  from 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE.  223 

cown  to  village,  and  from  village  to  hamlet,  inoculating  the 
vulgar  with  the  asinine  virus  of  Dissent.” 

“Come,  Byles,  that  seems  a  deal  more  likely,”  said  Mr. 
Tomlinson,  in  a  conciliatory  tone,  apparently  of  opinion  that 
history  was  a  process  of  ingenious  guessing. 

“It’s  not  a  question  of  likelihood;  it’s  a  known  fact.  I 
could  fetch  you  my  Encyclopaedia,  and  show  it  you  this 
moment.” 

“  I  don’t  care  a  straw,  sir,  either  for  you  or  your  Encyclo¬ 
paedia,”  said  Mr.  Dempster;  “a  farrago  of  false  information 
of  which  you  picked  up  an  imperfect  copy  in  a  cargo  of  waste 
paper.  Will  you  tell  me ,  sir,  that  I  don’t  know  the  origin  of 
Presbyterianism  ?  I,  sir,  a  man  known  through  the  county, 
intrusted  with  the  affairs  of  half  a  score  parishes ;  while  you, 
sir,  are  ignored  by  the  very  fleas  that  infest  the  miserable 
alley  in  which  you  were  bred.” 

A  loud  and  general  laugh,  with  “You ’d  better  let  him 
alone,  Byles;”  “You’ll  not  get  the  better  of  Dempster  in 
a  hurry,”  drowned  the  retort  of  the  too  well-informea  Mr. 
Byles,  who,  white  with  rage,  rose  and  walked  out  of  the 
bar. 

“A  meddlesome,  upstart,  Jacobinical  fellow,  gentlemen,” 
continued  Mr.  Dempster.  “I  was  determined  to  be  rid  of 
him.  What  does  he  mean  by  thrusting  himself  into  our 
company  ?  A  man  with  about  as  much  principle  as  he  has 
property,  which,  to  my  knowledge,  is  considerably  less  than 
none.  An  insolvent  atheist,  gentlemen.  A  deistical  prater, 
fit  to  sit  in  the  chimney-corner  of  a  pot-house,  and  make  blas¬ 
phemous  comments  on  the  one  greasy  newspaper  fingered  by 
beer-swilling  tinkers.  I  will  not  suffer  in  my  company  a  man 
who  speaks  lightly  of  religion.  The  signature  of  a  fellow  like 
Byles  would  be  a  blot  on  our  protest.” 

“  And  how  do  you  get  on  with  your  signatures  ?  ”  said  Mr. 
Pilgrim,  the  doctor,  who  had  presented  his  large  top-booted 
person  within  the  bar  while  Mr.  Dempster  was  speaking.  Mr. 
Pilgrim  had  just  returned  from  one  of  his  long  day’s  rounds 
among  the  farm-houses,  in  the  course  of  which  he  had  sat  down 
to  two  hearty  meals  that  might  have  been  mistaken  for  dinners 


SCENES  OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


22* 

if  he  had  not  declared  them  to  be  “  snaps  ; ”  and  as  each  snap 
had  been  followed  by  a  few  glasses  of  “  mixture,”  containing  a 
less  liberal  proportion  of  water  than  the  articles  he  himself 
labelled  with  that  broadly  generic  name,  he  was  in  that  condi¬ 
tion  which  his  groom  indicated  with  poetic  ambiguity  by  say¬ 
ing  that  “  master  had  been  in  the  sunshine.”  Under  these  cir¬ 
cumstances,  after  a  hard  day,  in  which  he  had  really  had  no 
regular  meal,  it  seemed  a  natural  relaxation  to  step  into  the  bar 
of  the  Red  Lion,  where,  as  it  was  Saturday  evening,  he  should 
be  sure  to  find  Dempster,  and  hear  the  latest  news  about  the 
protest  against  the  evening  lecture. 

“Have  you  hooked  Ben  Landor  yet?”  he  continued,  as  he 
took  two  chairs,  one  for  his  body,  and  the  other  for  his  right 
leg. 

“No,”  said  Mr.  Budd,  the  churchwarden,  shaking  his  head; 
“Ben  Landor  has  a  way  of  keeping  himself  neutral  in  every¬ 
thing,  and  he  does  n’t  like  to  oppose  his  father.  Old  Landor 
is  a  regular  Tryanite.  But  we  haven’t  got  your  name  yet, 
Pilgrim.” 

“Tut  tut,  Budd,”  said  Mr.  Dempster,  sarcastically,  “you 
don’t  expect  Pilgrim  to  sign  ?  He ’s  got  a  dozen  Tryanite  livers 
under  his  treatment.  Nothing  like  cant  and  methodism  for 
producing  a  superfluity  of  bile.” 

“  Oh,  I  thought,  as  Pratt  had  declared  himself  a  Tryanite, 
we  should  be  sure  to  get  Pilgrim  on  our  side.” 

Mr.  Pilgrim  was  not  a  man  to  sit  quiet  under  a  sarcasm, 
nature  having  endowed  him  with  a  considerable  share  of  self¬ 
defensive  wit.  In  his  most  sober  moments  he  had  an  impedi¬ 
ment  in  his  speech,  and  as  copious  gin-and-water  stimulated  not 
the  speech  but  the  impediment,  he  had  time  to  make  his  retort 
sufficiently  bitter. 

“  Why,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Budd,”  he  spluttered,  “  there’s  a 
report  all  over  the  town  that  Deb  Traunter  swears  you  shall  take 
her  with  you  as  one  of  the  delegates,  and  they  say  there ’s  to 
be  a  fine  crowd  at  your  door  the  morning  you  start,  to  see  the 

row.  Knowing  your  tenderness  for  that  member  of  the  fair 

sex,  I  thought  you  might  find  it  impossible  to  deny  her.  1 
hang  back  a  little  from  signing  on  that  account,  as  Prendergast 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE,  225 

might  not  take  the  protest  well  if  Deb  Traunter  went  with 
you.” 

Mr.  Budd  was  a  small,  sleek-headed  bachelor  of  five-and- 
forty,  whose  scandalous  life  had  long  furnished  his  more  moral 
neighbors  with  an  after-dinner  joke.  He  had  no  other  striking 
characteristic,  except  that  he  was  a  currier  of  choleric  temper¬ 
ament,  so  that  you  might  wonder  why  he  had  been  chosen  as 
clergyman’s  churchwarden,  if  I  did  not  tell  you  that  he  had 
recently  been  elected  through  Mr.  Dempster’s  exertions,  in  or¬ 
der  that  his  zeal  against  the  threatened  evening  lecture  might 
be  backed  by  the  dignity  of  office. 

“Come,  come,  Pilgrim,”  said  Mr.  Tomlinson,  covering  Mr. 
Budd’s  retreat,  “you  know  you  like  to  wear  the  crier’s  coat, 
green  o’  one  side  and  red  o’  the  other.  You  ’ve  been  to  hear 
Try  an  preach  at  Paddiford  Common  —  you  know  you  have.” 

“To  be  sure  I  have  ;  and  a  capital  sermon  too.  It’s  a  pity 
you  were  not  there.  It  was  addressed  to  those  ‘void  of 
understanding.’  ” 

“No,  no,  you’ll  never  catch  me  there,”  returned  Mr.  Tom¬ 
linson,  not  in  the  least  stung;  “he  preaches  without  book, 
they  say,  just  like  a  Dissenter.  It  must  be  a  rambling  sort  of 
a  concern.” 

“  That ’s  not  the  worst,”  said  Mr.  Dempster ;  “  he  preaches 
against  good  works ;  says  good  works  are  not  necessary  to 
salvation  —  a  sectarian,  antinomian,  anabaptist  doctrine.  Tell 
a  man  he  is  not  to  be  saved  by  his  works,  and  you  open  the 
flood-gates  of  all  immorality.  You  see  it  in  all  these  canting 
innovators ;  they  ’re  all  bad  ones  by  the  sly ;  smooth-faced, 
drawling,  hypocritical  fellows,  who  pretend  ginger  is  n’t  hot  in 
their  mouths,  and  cry  down  all  innocent  pleasures  ;  their  hearts 
are  all  the  blacker  for  their  sanctimonious  outsides.  Have  n’t 
we  been  warned  against  those  who  make  clean  the  outside  of 
the  cup  and  the  platter  ?  There ’s  this  Tryan,  now,  he  goes 
about  praying  with  old  women,  and  singing  with  charity  chil¬ 
dren  ;  but  wdiat  has  he  really  got  his  eye  on  all  the  while  ?  A 
domineering  ambitious  Jesuit,  gentlemen ;  all  he  wants  is  to 
get  his  foot  far  enough  into  the  parish  to  step  into  Crewe’s 
shoes  when  the  old  gentleman  dies.  Depend  upon  it,  whei> 

16 


VOL.  IV. 


226 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


ever  you  see  a  man  pretending  to  be  better  than  his  neighbors* 
that  man  has  either  some  cunning  end  to  serve,  or  his  heart  is 
rotten  with  spiritual  pride.” 

As  if  to  guarantee  himself  against  this  awful  sin,  Mr.  Demp¬ 
ster  seized  his  glass  of  brandy-and-water,  and  tossed  off  the 
contents  with  even  greater  rapidity  than  usual. 

“  Have  you  fixed  on  your  third  delegate  yet  ?  ”  said  Mr.  Pil¬ 
grim,  whose  taste  was  for  detail  rather  than  for  dissertation. 

“  That ’s  the  man,”  answered  Dempster,  pointing  to  Mr. 
Tomlinson.  “We  start  for  Elmstoke  Rectory  on  Tuesday 
morning ;  so,  if  you  mean  to  give  us  your  signature,  you  must 
make  up  your  mind  pretty  quickly,  Pilgrim.” 

Mr.  Pilgrim  did  not  in  the  least  mean  it,  so  he  only  said,  “  I 
should  n’t  wonder  if  Tryan  turns  out  too  many  for  you,  after  all. 
He ’s  got  a  well-oiled  tongue  of  his  own,  and  has  perhaps  talked 
over  Prendergast  into  a  determination  to  stand  by  him.” 

“Ve-ry  little  fear  of  that,”  said  Dempster,  in  a  confident 
tone.  “  I  ’ll  soon  bring  him  round.  Tryan  has  got  his  match. 
I’ve  plenty  of  rods  in  pickle  for  Tryan.” 

At  this  moment  Boots  entered  the  bar,  and  put  a  letter  into 
the  lawyer’s  hands,  saying,  “  There ’s  Trower’s  man  just  come 
into  the  yard  wi’  a  gig,  sir,  an’  he ’s  brought  this  here  letter.” 

Mr.  Dempster  read  the  letter  and  said,  “  Tell  him  to  turn 
the  gig  —  I  ’ll  be  with  him  in  a  minute.  Here,  run  to  Gruby ’s 
and  get  this  snuff-box  filled  —  quick  !  ” 

“  Trower ’s  worse,  I  suppose ;  eh,  Dempster  ?  Wants  you  to 
alter  his  will,  eh  ?  ”  said  Mr.  Pilgrim. 

“  Business  —  business  —  business  —  I  don’t  know  exactly 
what,”  answered  the  cautious  Dempster,  rising  deliberately 
from  his  chair,  thrusting  on  his  low-crowned  hat,  and  walking 
with  a  slow  but  not  unsteady  step  out  of  the  bar. 

“  I  never  see  Dempster’s  equal ;  if  I  did  I  ’ll  be  shot,”  said 
Mr.  Tomlinson,  looking  after  the  lawyer  admiringly.  “  Why, 
he’s  drunk  the  best  part  of  a  bottle  o’  brandy  since  here 
we’ve  been  sitting,  and  I’ll  bet  a  guinea,  when  he’s  got  to 
Trower’s  his  head  ’ll  be  as  clear  as  mine.  He  knows  more 
about  law  when  he’s  drunk  than  all  the  rest  on  ’em  when 
they  ’re  sober.” 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


227 


«Ay,  and  other  things  too,  besides  law,”  said  Mr.  Budd. 
u  Did  you  notice  how  he  took  up  Byles  about  the  Presbyterians  ? 
Bless  your  heart,  he  knows  everything,  Dempster  does.  He 
studied  very  hard  when  he  was  a  young  man.” 


CHAPTER  n. 

The  conversation  just  recorded  is  not,  I  am  aware,  remark¬ 
ably  refined  or  witty ;  but  if  it  had  been,  it  could  hardly  have 
taken  place  in  Milby  when  Mr.  Dempster  flourished  there,  and 
old  Mr.  Crewe,  the  curate,  was  yet  alive. 

More  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  has  slipped  by  since  then, 
and  in  the  interval  Milby  has  advanced  at  as  rapid  a  pace  as 
other  market-towns  in  her  Majesty’s  dominions.  By  this  time 
it  has  a  handsome  railway-station,  where  the  drowsy  London 
traveller  may  look  out  by  the  brilliant  gas-light  and  see  per- 
fectly  sober  papas  and  husbands  alighting  with  their  leather 
bags  after  transacting  their  day’s  business  at  the  county  town. 
There  is  a  resident  rector,  who  appeals  to  the  consciences  of 
his  hearers  with  all  the  immense  advantages  of  a  divine  who 
keeps  his  own  carriage ;  the  church  is  enlarged  by  at  least 
five  hundred  sittings ;  and  the  grammar-school,  conducted  on 
reformed  principles,  has  its  upper  forms  crowded  with  the 
genteel  youth  of  Milby.  The  gentlemen  there  fall  into  no 
other  excess  at  dinner-parties  than  the  perfectly  well-bred  and 
virtuous  excess  of  stupidity  ;  and  though  the  ladies  are  still 
said  sometimes  to  take  too  much  upon  themselves,  they  are 
never  known  to  take  too  much  in  any  other  way.  The  con¬ 
versation  is  sometimes  quite  literary,  for  there  is  a  flourishing 
book-club,  and  many  of  the  younger  ladies  have  carried  their 
studies  so  far  as  to  have  forgotten  a  little  German.  In  short, 
Milby  is  now  a  refined,  moral,  and  enlightened  town ;  no  more 
resembling  the  Milby  of  former  days  than  the  huge,  long* 


228 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


skirted,  drab  great-coat  that  embarrassed  the  ankles  of  our 
grandfathers  resembled  the  light  paletot  in  which  we  tread 
jauntily  through  the  muddiest  streets,  or  than  the  bottle-nosed 
Britons,  rejoicing  over  a  tankard  in  the  old  sign  of  the  Two 
Travellers  at  Milby,  resembled  the  severe-looking  gentleman 
in  straps  and  high  collars  whom  a  modern  artist  has  repre¬ 
sented  as  sipping  the  imaginary  port  of  that  well-known  com¬ 
mercial  house. 

But  pray,  reader,  dismiss  from  your  mind  all  the  refined 
and  fashionable  ideas  associated  with  this  advanced  state  of 
things,  and  transport  your  imagination  to  a  time  when  Milby 
had  no  gas-lights  ;  when  the  mail  drove  up  dusty  or  bespattered 
to  the  door  of  the  Red  Lion ;  when  old  Mr.  Crewe,  the  curate, 
in  a  brown  Brutus  wig,  delivered  inaudible  sermons  on  a  Sun- 
day,  and  on  a  week-day  imparted  the  education  of  a  gentleman 
—  that  is  to  say,  an  arduous  inacquaintance  with  Latin  through 
the  medium  of  the  Eton  Grammar  —  to  three  pupils  in  the 
upper  grammar-school. 

If  you  had  passed  through  Milby  on  the  coach  at  .that  time, 
you  would  have  had  no  idea  what  important  people  lived  there, 
and  how  very  high  a  sense  of  rank  was  prevalent  among  them. 
It  was  a  dingy-looking  town,  with  a  strong  smell  of  tanning 
up  one  street  and  a  great  shaking  of  hand-looms  up  another ; 
and  even  in  that  focus  of  aristocracy,  Friar’s  Gate,  the  houses 
would  not  have  seemed  very  imposing  to  the  hasty  and  super¬ 
ficial  glance  of  a  passenger.  You  might  still  less  have  sus¬ 
pected  that  the  figure  in  light  fustian  and  large  gray  whiskers, 
leaning  against  the  grocer’s  door-post  in  High  Street,  was  no 
less  a  person  than  Mr.  Lowme,  one  of  the  most  aristocratic 
men  in  Milby,  said  to  have  been  “brought  up  a  gentleman,” 
and  to  have  had  the  gay  habits  accordant  with  that  station, 
keeping  his  harriers  and  other  expensive  animals.  He  was 
now  quite  an  elderly  Lothario,  reduced  to  the  most  economical 
sins  ;  the  prominent  form  of  his  gayety  being  this  of  loung¬ 
ing  at  Mr.  Gruby’s  door,  embarrassing  the  servant-maids  who 
came  for  grocery,  and  talking  scandal  with  the  rare  passers-by. 
Still,  it  was  generally  understood  that  Mr.  Lowme  belonged  to 
the  highest  circle  of  Milby  society ;  his  sons  and  daughters 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


229 


held  up  their  heads  very  high  indeed ;  and  in  spite  of  his 
condescending  way  of  chatting  and  drinking  with  inferior 
people,  he  would  himself  have  scorned  any  closer  identifica¬ 
tion  with  them.  It  must  be  admitted  that  he  was  of  some 
service  to  the  town  in  this  station  at  Mr.  Gruby’s  door,  for  he 
and  Mr.  Landor’s  Newfoundland  dog,  who  stretched  himself 
and  gaped  on  the  opposite  causeway,  took  something  from  the 
lifeless  air  that  belonged  to  the  High  Street  on  every  day 
except  Saturday. 

Certainly,  in  spite  of  three  assemblies  and  a  charity  ball  in 
the  winter,  the  occasional  advent  of  a  ventriloquist,  or  a  com¬ 
pany  of  itinerant  players,  some  of  whom  were  very  highly 
thought  of  in  London,  and  the  annual  three-days’  fair  in  June, 
Milby  might  be  considered  dull  by  people  of  a  hypochondriacal 
temperament ;  and  perhaps  this  was  one  reason  why  many  of 
the  middle-aged  inhabitants,  male  and  female,  often  found  it 
impossible  to  keep  up  their  spirits  without  a  very  abundant 
supply  of  stimulants.  It  is  true  there  were  several  substantial 
men  who  had  a  reputation  for  exceptional  sobriety,  so  that 
Milby  habits  were  really  not  as  bad  as  possible ;  and  no  one  is 
warranted  in  saying  that  old  Mr.  Crewe’s  flock  could  not  have 
been  worse  without  any  clergyman  at  all. 

The  well-dressed  parishioners  generally  were  very  regular 
church-goers,  and  to  the  younger  ladies  and  gentlemen  I  am  in¬ 
clined  to  think  that  the  Sunday  morning  service  was  the  most 
exciting  event  of  the  week ;  for  few  places  could  present  a 
more  brilliant  show  of  out-door  toilets  than  might  be  seen  issu¬ 
ing  from  Milby  church  at  one  o’clock.  There  were  the  four 
tall  Miss  Pittmans,  old  lawyer  Pittman’s  daughters,  with 
cannon  curls  surmounted  by  large  hats,  and  long,  drooping 
ostrich  feathers  of  parrot  green.  There  was  Miss  Phipps, 
with  a  crimson  bonnet,  very  much  tilted  up  behind,  and  a 
cockade  of  stiff  feathers  on  the  summit.  There  was  Miss 
Landor,  the  belle  of  Milby,  clad  regally  in  purple  and  ermine, 
with  a  plume  of  feathers  neither  drooping  nor  erect,  but  main¬ 
taining  a  discreet  medium.  There  were  the  three  Miss  Tom¬ 
linsons,  who  imitated  Miss  Landor,  and  also  wore  ermine  and 
feathers ;  but  theix  beauty  was  considered  of  a  coarse  order, 


230 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


and  their  square  forms  were  quite  unsuited  to  the  round  tip- 
pet  which  fell  with  such  remarkable  grace  on  Miss  LandoFs 
sloping  shoulders.  Looking  at  this  plumed  procession  of 
ladies,  you  would  have  formed  rather  a  high  idea  of  Milbv 
wealth ;  yet  there  was  only  one  close  carriage  in  the  place,  and 
that  was  old  Mr.  Landor’s,  the  banker,  who,  I  think,  never 
drove  more  than  one  horse.  These  sumptuously  attired  ladies 
flashed  past  the  vulgar  eye  in  one-horse  chaises,  by  no  means 
of  a  superior  build. 

The  young  gentlemen,  too,  were  not  without  their  little 
Sunday  displays  of  costume,  of  a  limited  masculine  kind. 
Mr.  Eustace  Landor,  being  nearly  of  age,  had  recently  acquired 
a  diamond  ring,  together  with  the  habit  of  rubbing  his  hand 
through  his  hair.  He  was  tall  and  dark,  and  thus  had  an  ad¬ 
vantage  which  Mr.  Alfred  Phipps,  who,  like  his  sister,  was 
blond  and  stumpy,  found  it  difficult  to  overtake,  even  by  the 
severest  attention  to  shirt-studs,  and  the  particular  shade  of 
brown  that  was  best  relieved  by  gilt  buttons. 

The  respect  for  the  Sabbath,  manifested  in  this  attention  to 
costume,  was  unhappily  counterbalanced  by  considerable  levity 
of  behavior  during  the  prayers  and  sermon ;  for  the  young 
ladies  and  gentlemen  of  Milby  were  of  a  very  satirical  turn, 
Miss  Landor  especially  being  considered  remarkably  clever, 
and  a  terrible  quiz ;  and  the  large  congregation  necessarily  con¬ 
taining  many  persons  inferior  in  dress  and  demeanor  to  the 
distinguished  aristocratic  minority,  divine  service  offered  irre¬ 
sistible  temptations  to  joking,  through  the  medium  of  tele¬ 
graphic  communications  from  the  galleries  to  the  aisles  and 
back  again.  I  remember  blushing  very  much,  and  thinking 
Miss  Landor  was  laughing  at  me,  because  I  was  appearing  in 
coat-tails  for  the  first  time,  when  I  saw  her  look  down  slyly 
towards  where  I  sat,  and  then  turn  with  a  titter  to  handsome 
Mr.  Bob  Lowme,  who  had  such  beautiful  whiskers  meeting 
under  his  chin.  But  perhaps  she  was  not  thinking  of  me, 
after  all ;  for  our  pew  was  near  the  pulpit,  and  there  was  almost 
always  something  funny  about  old  Mr.  Crewe.  His  brown 
wig  was  hardly  ever  put  on  quite  right,  and  he  had  a  way  of 
raising  his  voice  for  three  or  four  words,  and  lowering  it  again 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


231 


So  a  mumble,  so  that  we  could  scarcely  make  out  a  word  he 
said ;  though,  as  my  mother  observed,  that  was  of  no  conse* 
quence  in  the  prayers,  since  every  one  had  a  prayer-book  ;  and 
as  for  the  sermon,  she  continued  with  some  causticity,  we  all 
of  us  heard  more  of  it  than  we  could  remember  when  we  got 
home. 

This  youthful  generation  was  not  particularly  literary.  .  The 
young  ladies  who  frizzed  their  hair,  and  gathered  it  all  into 
large  barricades  in  front  of  their  heads,  leaving  their  occipital 
region  exposed  without  ornament,  as  if  that,  being  a  back 
view,  was  of  no  consequence,  dreamed  as  little  that  their 
daughters  would  read  a  selection  of  German  poetry,  and  be 
able  to  express  an  admiration  for  Schiller,  as  that  they  would 
turn  all  their  hair  the  other  way — that  instead  of  threatening 
us  with  barricades  in  front,  they  would  be  most  killing  in 
retreat, 

M  And,  like  the  Parthian,  wound  us  as  they  fly/* 

Those  charming  well-frizzed  ladies  spoke  French  indeed  with 
considerable  facility,  unshackled  by  any  timid  regard  to 
idiom,  and  were  in  the  habit  of  conducting  conversations  in 
that  language  in  the  presence  of  their  less  instructed  elders ; 
for  according  to  the  standard  of  those  backward  days,  their 
education  had  been  very  lavish,  such  young  ladies  as  Miss 
Landor,  Miss  Phipps,  and  the  Miss  Pittmans,  having  been 
“  finished  ”  at  distant  and  expensive  schools. 

Old  lawyer  Pittman  had  once  been  a  very  important  person 
indeed,  having  in  his  earlier  days  managed  the  affairs  of  sev¬ 
eral  gentlemen  in  those  parts,  who  had  subsequently  been 
obliged  to  sell  everything  and  leave  the  country,  in  which 
crisis  Mr.  Pittman  accommodatingly  stepped  in  as  a  purchaser 
of  their  estates,  taking  on  himself  the  risk  and  trouble  of  a 
more  leisurely  sale ;  which,  however,  happened  to  turn  out 
very  much  to  his  advantage.  Such  opportunities  occur  quite 
unexpectedly  in  the  way  of  business.  But  I  think  Mr.  Pitt¬ 
man  must  have  been  unlucky  in  his  later  speculations,  for  now, 
in  his  old  age,  he  had  not  the  reputation  of  being  very  rich  ; 
and  though  he  rode  slowly  to  his  office  in  Milby  every  morning 


232  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

on  an  old  white  hackney,  he  had  to  resign  the  chief  profits,  as 
well  as  the  active  business  of  the  firm,  to  his  younger  partner, 
Dempster.  No  one  in  Milby  considered  old  Pittman  a  virtu¬ 
ous  man,  and  the  elder  townspeople  were  not  at  all  backward 
in  narrating  the  least  advantageous  portions  of  his  biography 
in  a  very  round  unvarnished  manner.  Yet  I  could  never  ob¬ 
serve  that  they  trusted  him  any  the  less,  or  liked  him  any  the 
worse.  Indeed,  Pittman  and  Dempster  were  the  popular  law¬ 
yers  of  Milby  and  its  neighborhood,  and  Mr.  Benjamin  Landor, 
whom  no  one  had  anything  particular  to  say  against,  had  a 
very  meagre  business  in  comparison.  Hardly  a  landholder, 
hardly  a  farmer,  hardly  a  parish  within  ten  miles  of  Milby, 
whose  affairs  were  not  under  the  legal  guardianship  of  Pitt¬ 
man  and  Dempster ;  and  I  think  the  clients  were  proud  of 
their  lawyers’  unscrupulousness,  as  the  patrons  of  the  fancy 
are  proud  of  their  champion’s  u  condition.”  It  was  not,  to  be 
sure,  the  thing  for  ordinary  life,  but  it  was  the  thing  to  be  bet 
on  in  a  lawyer.  Dempster’s  talent  in  “  bringing  through  ”  a 
client  was  a  very  common  topic  of  conversation  with  the  farm¬ 
ers,  over  an  incidental  glass  of  grog  at  the  Red  Lion.  “  He ’s 
a  long-headed  feller,  Dempster ;  why,  it  shows  yer  what  a  head¬ 
piece  Dempster  has,  as  he  can  drink  a  bottle  o’  brandy  at  a 
sittin’,  an’  yit  see  further  through  a  stone  wall  when  he ’s  done, 
than  other  folks  ’ll  see  through  a  glass  winder.”  Even  Mr. 
Jerome,  chief  member  of  the  congregation  at  Salem  Chapel, 
an  elderly  man  of  very  strict  life,  was  one  of  Dempster’s 
clients,  and  had  quite  an  exceptional  indulgence  for  his  at¬ 
torney’s  foibles,  perhaps  attributing  them  to  the  inevitable 
incompatibility  of  law  and  gospel. 

The  standard  of  morality  at  Milby,  you  perceive,  was  not 
inconveniently  high  in  those  good  old  times,  and  an  ingenuous 
vice  or  two  was  what  every  man  expected  of  his  neighbor. 
Old  Mr.  Crewe,  the  curate,  for  example,  was  allowed  to  enjoy 
his  avarice  in  comfort,  without  fear  of  sarcastic  parish  dema 
gogues  ;  and  his  flock  liked  him  all  the  better  for  having 
scraped  together  a  large  fortune  out  of  his  school  and  curacy, 
and  the  proceeds  of  the  three  thousand  pounds  he  had  with 
his  little  deaf  wife.  It  was  clear  he  must  be  a  learned  man, 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE. 


233 


for  he  had  once  had  a  large  private  school  in  connection  with 
the  grammar-school,  and  had  even  numbered  a  young  noble¬ 
man  or  two  among  his  pupils.  The  fact  that  he  read  nothing 
at  all  now,  and  that  his  mind  seemed  absorbed  in  the  common¬ 
est  matters,  was  doubtless  due  to  his  having  exhausted  the 
resources  of  erudition  earlier  in  life.  It  is  true  he  was  not 
spoken  of  in  terms  of  high  respect,  and  old  Crewe’s  stingy 
housekeeping  was  a  frequent  subject  of  jesting  ;  but  this  was 
a  good  old-fashioned  characteristic  in  a  parson  who  had  been 
part  of  Milby  life  for  half  a  century :  it  was  like  the  dents  and 
disfigurements  in  an  old  family  tankard,  which  no  one  would 
like  to  part  with  for  a  smart  new  piece  of  plate  fresh  from 
Birmingham.  The  parishioners  saw  no  reason  at  all  why  it 
should  be  desirable  to  venerate  the  parson  or  any  one  else: 
they  were  much  more  comfortable  to  look  down  a  little  on 
their  fellow-creatures. 

Even  the  Dissent  in  Milby  was  then  of  a  lax  and  indifferent 
kind.  The  doctrine  of  adult  baptism,  struggling  under  a 
heavy  load  of  debt,  had  let  off  half  its  chapel  area  as  a  ribbon- 
shop  ;  and  Methodism  was  only  to  be  detected,  as  you  detect 
curious  larvse,  by  diligent  search  in  dirty  corners.  The 
Independents  were  the  only  Dissenters  of  whose  existence 
Milby  gentility  was  at  all  conscious,  and  it  had  a  vague  idea 
that  the  salient  points  of  their  creed  were  prayer  without 
book,  red  brick,  and  hypocrisy.  The  Independent  chapel, 
known  as  Salem,  stood  red  and  conspicuous  in  a  broad  street ; 
more  than  one  pew-holder  kept  a  brass-bound  gig ;  and  Mr. 
Jerome,  a  retired  corn-factor,  and  the  most  eminent  member 
of  the  congregation,  was  one  of  the  richest  men  in  the  parish. 
But  in  spite  of  this  apparent  prosperity,  together  with  the 
usual  amount  of  extemporaneous  preaching  mitigated  by 
furtive  notes,  Salem  belied  its  name,  and  was  not  always  the 
abode  of  peace.  For  some  reason  or  other,  it  was  unfortunate 
in  the  choice  of  its  ministers.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Horner,  elected 
with  brilliant  hopes,  was  discovered  to  be  given  to  tippling 
and  quarrelling  with  his  wife;  the  Rev.  Mr.  Rose’s  doctrine 
was  a  little  too  u  high,”  verging  on  antinomianism  ;  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Stickney’s  gift  as  a  preacher  was  found  to  be  less  striking 


234 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


on  a  more  extended  acquaintance ;  and  the  Rev.  Mr,  Smith,  a 
distinguished  minister  much  sought  after  in  the  iron  districts, 
with  a  talent  for  poetry,  became  objectionable  from  an  incli¬ 
nation  to  exchange  verses  with  the  young  ladies  of  his  congre¬ 
gation.  It  was  reasonably  argued  that  such  verses  as  Mr. 
Smith’s  must  take  a  long  time  for  their  composition,  and  the 
habit  alluded  to  might  intrench  seriously  on  his  pastoral 
duties.  These  reverend  gentlemen,  one  and  all,  gave  it  as 
their  opinion  that  the  Salem  church  members  were  among  the 
least  enlightened  of  the  Lord’s  people,  and  that  Milby  was  a 
low  place,  where  they  would  have  found  it  a  severe  lot  to  have 
their  lines  fall  for  any  long  period  ;  though  to  see  the  smart 
and  crowded  congregation  assembled  on  occasion  of  the  annual 
charity  sermon,  any  one  might  have  supposed  that  the  min¬ 
ister  of  Salem  had  rather  a  brilliant  position  in  the  ranks  of 
Dissent.  Several  Church  families  used  to  attend  on  that 
occasion,  for  Milby,  in  those  uninstructed  days,  had  not  yet 
heard  that  the  schismatic  ministers  of  Salem  were  obviously 
typified  by  Korah,  Dathan,  and  Abiram  ;  and  many  Church 
people  there  were  of  opinion  that  Dissent  might  be  a  weak¬ 
ness,  but,  after  all,  had  no  great  harm  in  it.  These  lax 
Episcopalians  were,  I  believe,  chiefly  tradespeople,  who  held 
that,  inasmuch  as  Congregationalism  consumed  candles,  it 
ought  to  be  supported,  and  accordingly  made  a  point  of  pre¬ 
senting  themselves  at  Salem  for  the  afternoon  charity  sermon, 
with  the  expectation  of  being  asked  to  hold  a  plate.  Mr. 

1  ilgiim,  too,  was  always  there  with  his  half-sovereign;  for  as 
there  was  no  Dissenting  doctor  in  Milby,  Mr.  Pilgrim  looked 
with  great  tolerance  on  all  shades  of  religious  opinion  that 
did  not  include  a  belief  in  cures  by  miracle. 

On  this  point  he  had  the  concurrence  of  Mr.  Pratt,  the  only 
other  medical  man  of  the  same  standing  in  Milby.  Other¬ 
wise,  it  was  lemarkable  how  strongly  these  two  clever  men 
were  contrasted.  Pratt  was  middle-sized,  insinuating,  and 
silvery-voiced ;  Pilgrim  was  tall,  heavy,  rough-mannered,  and 
spluttering.  Roth  were  considered  to  have  great  powers  of 
conversation,  but  Pratt’s  anecdotes  were  of  the  fine  old 
trusted  quality  to  be  procured  only  of  Joe  Miller;  Pilgrim’s 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


'235 


had  the  full  fruity  flavor  of  the  most  recent  scandal.  Pratt 
elegantly  referred  all  diseases  to  debility,  and,  with  a  proper 
contempt  for  symptomatic  treatment,  went  to  the  root  of  the 
matter  with  port-wine  and  bark ;  Pilgrim  was  persuaded  that 
the  evil  principle  in  the  human  system  was  plethora,  and  he 
made  war  against  it  with  cupping,  blistering,  and  cathartics. 
They  had  both  been  long  established  in  Milby,  and  as  each 
had  a  sufficient  practice,  there  was  no  very  malignant  rivalry 
between  them ;  on  the  contrary,  they  had  that  sort  of  friendly 
contempt  for  each  other  which  is  always  conducive  to  a  good 
understanding  between  professional  men ;  and  when  any  new 
surgeon  attempted,  in  an  ill-advised  hour,  to  settle  himself  in 
the  town,  it  was  strikingly  demonstrated  how  slight  and 
trivial  are  theoretic  differences  compared  with  the  broad 
basis  of  common  human  feeling.  There  was  the  most  perfect 
unanimity  between  Pratt  and  Pilgrim  in  the  determination  to 
drive  away  the  obnoxious  and  too  probably  unqualified  intruder 
as  soon  as  possible.  Whether  the  first  wonderful  cure  he 
effected  was  on  a  patient  of  Pratt’s  or  of  Pilgrim’s,  one  was  as 
ready  as  the  other  to  pull  the  interloper  by  the  nose,  and  both 
alike  directed  their  remarkable  powers  of  conversation  towards 
making  the  town  too  hot  for  him.  But  by  their  respective 
patients  these  two  distinguished  men  were  pitted  against  each 
other  with  great  virulence.  Mrs.  Lowme  could  not  conceal 
her  amazement  that  Mrs.  Phipps  should  trust  her  life  in  the 
hands  of  Pratt,  who  let  her  feed  herself  up  to  that  degree,  it 
was  really  shocking  to  hear  how  short  her  breath  was ;  and 
Mrs.  Phipps  had  no  patience  with  Mrs.  Lowme,  living,  as  she 
did,  on  tea  and  broth,  and  looking  as  yellow  as  any  crow- 
flower,  and  yet  letting  Pilgrim  bleed  and  blister  her  and  give 
her  lowering  medicine  till  her  clothes  hung  on  her  like  a 
scarecrow’s.  On  the  whole,  perhaps,  Mr.  Pilgrim’s  reputa¬ 
tion  was  at  the  higher  pitch,  and  when  any  lady  under  Mr. 
Pratt’s  care  was  doing  ill,  she  was  half  disposed  to  think  that 
a  little  more  “  active  treatment  ”  might  suit  her  better.  But 
without  very  definite  provocation  no  one  would  take  so  serious 
a  step  as  to  part  with  the  family  doctor,  for  in  those  remote 
days  there  were  few  varieties  of  human  hatred  more  formid- 


236 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


able  than  the  medical.  The  doctor’s  estimate,  even  of  a  con¬ 
fiding  patient,  was  apt  to  rise  and  fall  with  the  entries  in  the 
day-book ;  and  1  have  known  Mr.  Pilgrim  discover  the  most 
unexpected  virtues  in  a  patient  seized  with  a  promising  ill¬ 
ness.  At  such  times  you  might  have  been  glad  to  perceive 
that  there  were  some  of  Mr.  Pilgrim’s  fellow-creatures  of 
whom  he  entertained  a  high  opinion,  and  that  he  was  liable  to 
the  amiable  weakness  of  a  too  admiring  estimate.  A  good 
inflammation  fired  his  enthusiasm,  and  a  lingering  dropsy 
dissolved  him  into  charity.  Doubtless  this  crescendo  cf  benev¬ 
olence  was  partly  due  to  feelings  not  at  all  represented  by  the 
entries  in  the  day-book ;  for  in  Mr.  Pilgrim’s  heart,  too,  there 
was  a  latent  store  of  tenderness  and  pity  which  flowed  forth 
at  the  sight  of  suffering.  Gradually,  however,  as  his  patients 
became  convalescent,  his  view  of  their  characters  became  more 
dispassionate  $  when  they  could  relish  mutton-chops,  he  began 
to  admit  that  they  had  foibles,  and  by  the  time  they  had 
swallowed  their  last  dose  of  tonic,  he  was  alive  to  their  most 
inexcusable  faults.  After  this,  the  thermometer  of  his  regard 
rested  at  the  moderate  point  of  friendly  backbiting,  which  suf¬ 
ficed  to  make  him  agreeable  in  his  morning  visits  to  the  amiable 
and  worthy  persons  who  were  yet  far  from  convalescent. 

Pratt’s  patients  were  profoundly  uninteresting  to  Pilgrim : 
their  very  diseases  were  despicable,  and  he  would  hardly  have 
thought  their  bodies  worth  dissecting.  But  of  all  Pratt’s  pa¬ 
tients,  Mr.  Jerome  was  the  one  on  whom  Mr.  Pilgrim  heaped 
the  most  unmitigated  contempt.  In  spite  of  the  surgeon’s 
wise  tolerance,  Dissent  became  odious  to  him  in  the  person  of 
Mr.  Jerome.  Perhaps  it  was  because  that  old  gentleman,  be¬ 
ing  rich,  and  having  very  large  yearly  bills  for  medical  attend¬ 
ance  on  himself  and  his  wife,  nevertheless  employed  Pratt  — 
neglected  all  the  advantages  of  “  active  treatment,”  and  paid 
away  his  money  without  getting  his  system  lowered.  On  any 
other  ground  it  is  hard  to  explain  a  feeling  of  hostility  to  Mr. 
Jerome,  who  was  an  excellent  old  gentleman,  expressing  a 
great  deal  of  good-will  towards  his  neighbors,  not  only  in  im¬ 
perfect  English,  but  in  loans  of  money  to  the  ostensibly  rich 
and  in  sacks  of  potatoes  to  the  obviously  poor. 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE, 


237 


Assuredly  Milby  had  that  salt  of  goodness  which  keeps  the 
world  together,  in  greater  abundance  than  was  visible  on  the 
surface :  innocent  babes  were  born  there,  sweetening  their 
parents’  hearts  with  simple  joys;  men  and  women  withering 
in  disappointed  worldliness,  or  bloated  with  sensual  ease,  had 
better  moments  in  which  they  pressed  the  hand  of  suffering 
with  sympathy,  and  were  moved  to  deeds  of  neighborly  kind¬ 
ness.  In  church  and  in  chapel  there  were  honest-hearted  wor¬ 
shippers  who  strove  to  keep  a  conscience  void  of  offence ;  and 
even  up  the  dimmest  alleys  you  might  have  found  here  and 
there  a  Wesleyan  to  whom  Methodism  was  the  vehicle  of 
peace  on  earth  and  good-will  to  men.  To  a  superficial  glance, 
Milby  was  nothing  but  dreary  prose  :  a  dingy  town,  surrounded 
by  flat  fields,  lopped  elms,  and  sprawling  manufacturing  vil¬ 
lages,  which  crept  on  and  on  with  their  weaving-shops,  till 
they  threatened  to  graft  themselves  on  the  town.  But  the 
sweet  spring  came  to  Milby  notwithstanding:  the  elm-tops 
were  red  with  buds  ;  the  church-yard  was  starred  with  daisies ; 
the  lark  showered  his  love-music  on  the  flat  fields;  the  rain¬ 
bows  hung  over  the  dingy  town,  clothing  the  very  roofs  and 
chimneys  in  a  strange  transfiguring  beauty.  And  so  it  was 
with  the  human  life  there,  which  at  first  seemed  a  dismal 
mixture  of  griping  worldliness,  vanity,  ostrich-feathers,  and 
the  fumes  of  brandy  :  looking  closer,  you  found  some  purity, 
gentleness,  and  unselfishness,  as  you  may  have  observed  a 
scented  geranium  giving  forth  its  wholesome  odors  amidst 
blasphemy  and  gin  in  a  noisy  pot-house.  Little  deaf  Mrs. 
Crewe  would  often  carry  half  her  own  spare  dinner  to  the  sick 
and  hungry  ;  Miss  Phipps,  with  her  cockade  of  red  feathers, 
had  a  filial  heart,  and  lighted  her  father’s  pipe  with  a  pleas¬ 
ant  smile  ;  and  there  were  gray -haired  men  in  drab  gaiters,  not 
at  all  noticeable  as  you  passed  them  in  the  street,  whose  integ¬ 
rity  had  been  the  basis  of  their  rich  neighbor’s  wealth. 

Such  as  the  place  was,  the  people  there  were  entirely  con¬ 
tented  with  it.  They  fancied  life  must  be  but  a  dull  affair  for 
that  large  portion  of  mankind  who  were  necessarily  shut  out 
from  an  acquaintance  with  Milby  families,  and  that  it  must  be 
ac  advantage  to  London  aud  Liverpool  that  Milby  gentlemen 


238 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


occasionally  visited  those  places  on  business.  But  the  inhabl 
tants  became  more  intensely  conscious  of  the  value  they  set 
upon  all  their  advantages,  when  innovation  made  its  appear¬ 
ance  in  the  person  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Tryan,  the  new  curate,  at 
the  chapel-of-ease  on  Paddiford  Common.  It  was  soon  noto¬ 
rious  in  Milby  that  Mr.  Tryan  held  peculiar  opinions  ;  that  he 
preached  extempore ;  that  he  was  founding  a  religious  lend¬ 
ing  library  in  his  remote  corner  of  the  parish ;  that  he  ex¬ 
pounded  the  Scriptures  in  cottages ;  and  that  his  preaching 
was  attracting  the  Dissenters,  and  filling  the  very  aisles  of  his 
church.  The  rumor  sprang  up  that  Evangelicalism  had  in¬ 
vaded  Milby  parish  —  a  murrain  or  blight  all  the  more  terrible, 
because  its  nature  was  but  dimly  conjectured.  Perhaps  Milby 
was  one  of  the  last  spots  to  be  reached  by  the  wave  of  a  new 
movement ;  and  it  was  only  now,  when  the  tide  was  just  on 
the  turn,  that  the  limpets  there  got  a  sprinkling.  Mr.  Tryan 
was  the  first  Evangelical  clergyman  who  had  risen  above  the 
Milby  horizon :  hitherto  that  obnoxious  adjective  had  been 
unknown  to  the  townspeople  of  any  gentility  ;  and  there  were 
even  many  Dissenters  who  considered  “  evangelical  ”  simply 
a  sort  of  baptismal  name  to  the  magazine  which  circulated 
among  the  congregation  of  Salem  Chapel.  But  now,  at  length, 
the  disease  had  been  imported,  when  the  parishioners  were 
expecting  it  as  little  as  the  innocent  Red  Indians  expected 
smallpox.  As  long  as  Mr.  Tryan’s  hearers  were  confined  to 
Paddiford  Common  —  which,  by  the  bye,  was  hardly  recogniz¬ 
able  as  a  common  at  all,  but  was  a  dismal  district  where  you 
heard  the  rattle  of  the  hand-loom,  and  breathed  the  smoke  of 
coal-pits  —  the  “  canting  parson”  could  be  treated  as  a  joke. 
Not  so  when  a  number  of  single  ladies  in  the  town  appeared 
to  be  infected,  and  even  one  or  two  men  of  substantial  prop- 
erty,  with  old  Mr.  Landor,  the  banker,  at  their  head,  seemed 
to  be  “  giving  in  ”  to  the  new  movement  —  when  Mr.  Tryan 
was  known  to  be  well  received  in  several  good  houses,  where 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  finishing  the  evening  with  exhortation 
and  prayer.  Evangelicalism  was  no  longer  a  nuisance  exist¬ 
ing  merely  in  by-corners,  which  any  well-clad  person  could 
avoid;  it  was  invading  the  very  drawing-rooms,  mingling 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 

itself  with  the  comfortable  fumes  of  port-wine  and  brandy, 
threatening  to  deaden  with  its  murky  breath  all  the  splendor 
of  the  ostrich-feathers,  and  to  stifle  Milby  ingenuousness,  not 
pretending  to  be  better  than  its  neighbors,  with  a  cloud  of 
cant  and  lugubrious  hypocrisy.  The  alarm  reached  its  climax 
when  it  was  reported  that  Mr.  Tryan  was  endeavoring  to  ob¬ 
tain  authority  from  Mr,  Prendergast,  the  non-resident  rector, 
to  establish  a  Sunday  evening  lecture  in  the  parish  church,  on 
the  ground  that  old  Mr.  Crewe  did  not  preach  the  .Gospel. 

It  now  first  appeared  how  surprisingly  high  a  value  Milby 
in  general  set  on  the  ministrations  of  Mr.  Crewe  ;  how  con¬ 
vinced  it  was  that  Mr.  Crewe  was  the  model  of  a  parish  priest 
and  his  sermons  the  soundest  and  most  edifying  that  had  ever 
remained  unheard  by  a  church-going  population.  All  allusions 
to  his  brown  wig  were  suppressed,  and  by  a  rhetorical  figure 
his  name  was  associated  with  venerable  gray  hairs  ;  the  at¬ 
tempted  intrusion  of  Mr.  Tryan  was  an  insult  to  a  man  deep 
in  years  and  learning ;  moreover,  it  was  an  insolent  effort  to 
thrust  himself  forward  in  a  parish  where  he  was  clearly  dis¬ 
tasteful  to  the  superior  portion  of  its  inhabitants.  The  town 
was  divided  into  two  zealous  parties,  the  Tryanites  and  anti- 
Tryanites;  and  by  the  exertions  of  the  eloquent  Dempster, 
the  anti-Tryanite  virulence  was  soon  developed  pnto  an  organ¬ 
ized  opposition.  A  protest  against  the  meditated  evening 
lecture  was  framed  by  that  orthodox  attorney,  and,  after  being 
numerously  signed,  was  to  be  carried  to  Mr.  Prendergast  by 
three  delegates  representing  the  intellect,  morality,  and  wealth 
of  Milby.  The  intellect,  you  perceive,  was  to  be  personified 
in  Mr.  Dempster,  the  morality  in  Mr.  Budd,  and  the  wealth  in 
Mr.  Tomlinson ;  and  the  distinguished  triad  was  to  set  out  on 
its  great  mission,  as  we  have  seen,  on  the  third  day  from  that 
warm  Saturday  evening  when  the  conversation  recorded  in  the 
previous  chapter  took  olace  in  the  bar  of  the  Red  Lion. 


24( 


SCENES  OS’  CLERICAL  LIFE 


CHAPTER  ILL 


It  was  quite  as  warm  the  following  Thursday  evening, 
when  Mr.  Dempster  and  his  colleagues  were  to  return  from 
their  mission  to  Elmstoko  Rectory  ;  but  it  was  much  pleasanter 
in  Mrs.  Linnet’s  parlor  than  in  the  bar  of  the  Red  Lion. 
Through  the  open  window  came  the  scent  of  mignonette  and 
honeysuckle  ;  the  grass-plot  in  front  of  the  house  was  shaded 
by  a  little  plantation  of  Gueldres  roses,  syringas,  and  labur¬ 
nums  ;  the  noise  of  looms  and  carts  and  unmelodious  voices 
reached  the  ear'  simply  as  an  agreeable  murmur,  for  Mrs. 
Linnet’s  house  was  situated  quite  on  the  outskirts  of  Paddi- 
ford  Common  ;  and  the  only  sound  likely  to  disturb  the  seren¬ 
ity  of  the  feminine  party  assembled  there,  was  the  occasional 
buzz  of  intrusive  wasps,  apparently  mistaking  each  lady’s 
head  for  a  sugar-basin.  No  sugar-basin  was  visible  in  Mrs. 
Linnet's  parlor,  for  the  time  of  tea  was  not  yet,  and  the  round 
table  was  littered  with  books  which  the  ladies  were  covering 
with  black  canvas  as  a  reinforcement  of  the  new  Paddiford 
Lending  Library.  Miss  Linnet,  whose  manuscript  was  the 
neatest  type  of  zigzag,  was  seated  at  a  small  table  apart,  writ¬ 
ing  on  green  paper  tickets,  which  were  to  be  pasted  on  the 
covers.  Miss  Linnet  had  other  accomplishments  besides  that 
of  a  neat  manuscript,  and  an  index  to  some  of  them  might  be 
found  in  the  ornaments  of  the  room.  She  had  always  com¬ 
bined  a  love  of  serious  and  poetical  reading  with  her  skill  in 
fancy-work,  and  the  neatly  bound  copies  of  Dryden’s  “Virgil,” 
Hannah  More’s  “  Sacred  Dramas,”  Falconer’s  “  Shipwreck,” 
Mason  “  On  Self-Knowledge,”  “  Rasselas,”  and  Burke  “  On  the 
Sublime  and  Beautiful,”  which  were  the  chief  ornaments  of 
the  bookcase,  were  all  inscribed  with  her  name,  and  had  been 
bought  with  her  pocket-money  when  she  was  in  her  teens. 
It  must  have  been  at  least  fifteen  years  since  the  latest 
of  those  purchases,  but  Miss  Linnet’s  skill  in  fancy-work 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


241 


appeared  to  have  gone  through  move  numerous  phases  than  her 
literary  taste  ;  for  the  japanned  boxes,  the  alum  and  sealing- 
wax  baskets,  the  fan-dolls,  the  “  transferred  ”  landscapes  on 
the  fire-screens,  and  the  recent  bouquets  of  wax-flowers,  showed 
a  disparity  in  freshness  which  made  them  referable  to  widely 
different  periods.  Wax-flowers  presuppose  delicate  fingers  and 
robust  patience,  but  there  are  still  many  points  of  mind  and 
person  which  they  leave  vague  and  problematic ;  so  I  must 
tell  you  that  Miss  Linnet  had  dark  ringlets,  a  sallow  com¬ 
plexion,  and  an  amiable  disposition.  As  to  her  features,  there 
was  not  much  to  criticise  in  them,  for  she  had  little  nose,  less 
lip,  and  no  eyebrow ;  and  as  to  her  intellect,  her  friend  Mrs. 
Pettifer  often  said:  “She  did  n’t  know  a  more  sensible  person 
to  talk  to  than  Mary  Linnet.  There  was  no  one  she  liked 
better  to  come  and  take  a  quiet  cup  of  tea  with  her,  and  read 
a  little  of  Klopstock’s  ‘  Messiah.’  Mary  Linnet  had  often 
told  her  a  great  deal  of  her  mind  when  they  were  sitting  to¬ 
gether  :  she  said  there  were  many  things  to  bear  in  every 
condition  of  life,  and  nothing  should  induce  her  to  marry 
without  a  prospect  of  happiness.  Once,  when  Mrs.  Pettifer 
admired  her  wax-flowers,  she  said,  1  Ah,  Mrs.  Pettifer,  think 
of  the  beauties  of  nature !  ’  She  always  spoke  very  prettily, 
did  Mary  Linnet ;  very  different,  indeed,  from  Rebecca.” 

Miss  Eebecca  Linnet,  indeed,  was  not  a  general  favorite. 
While  most  people  thought  it  a  pity  that  a  sensible  woman, 
like  Mary  had  not  found  a  good  husband  —  and  even  hei 
female  friends  said  nothing  more  ill-natured  of  her,  than  that 
her  face  was  like  a  piece  of  putty  with  two  Scotch  pebbles 
stuck  in  it  —  Rebecca  was  always  spoken  of  sarcastically,  and 
it  was  a  customary  kind  of  banter  with  young  ladies  to  recom¬ 
mend  her  as  a  wife  to  any  gentleman  they  happened  to  be 
flirting  with  —  her  fat,  her  finery,  and  her  thick  ankles  suffi¬ 
cing  to  give  piquancy  to  the  joke,  notwithstanding  the  absence 
of  novelty.  Miss  Rebecca,  however,  possessed  the  accomplish 
ment  of  music,  and  her  singing  of  “  Oh  no,  we  never  mention 
her,”  and  “  The  Soldier’s  Tear,”  was  so  desirable  an  accession 
to  the  pleasures  of  a  tea-party  that  no  one  cared  to  offend  her. 
especially  as  Rebecca  had  a  high  spirit  of  her  own,  and  in 

VOL.  IV. 


£42 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


spite  of  her  expansively  rounded  contour,  had  a  particularly 
sharp  tongue.  Her  reading  had  been  more  extensive  than  her 
sister’s,  embracing  most  of  the  fiction  in  Mr.  Procter’s  circu¬ 
lating  library ;  and  nothing  but  an  acquaintance  with  the 
course  of  her  studies  could  afford  a  clew  to  the  rapid  transi¬ 
tions  in  her  dress,  which  were  suggested  by  the  style  of 
beauty,  whether  sentimental,  sprightly,  or  severe,  possessed 
by  the  heroine  of  the  three  volumes  actually  in  perusal.  A 
piece  of  lace,  which  drooped  round  the  edge  of  her  white 
bonnet  one  week,  had  been  rejected  by  the  next;  and  her 
cheeks,  which,  on  Whitsunday,  loomed  through  a  Turnerian 
haze  of  network,  were,  on  Trinity  Sunday,  seen  reposing  in 
distinct  red  outline  on  her  shelving  bust,  like  the  sun  on  a 
fog-bank.  The  black  velvet,  meeting  with  a  crystal  clasp, 
which  one  evening  encircled  her  head,  had  on  another  de¬ 
scended  to  her  neck,  and  on  a  third  to  her  wrist,  suggesting 
to  an  active  imagination  either  a  magical  contraction  of  the 
ornament,  or  a  fearful  ratio  of  expansion  in  Miss  Rebecca’s 
person.  With  this  constant  application  of  art  to  dress,  she 
could  have  had  little  time  for  fancy-work,  even  if  she  had  not 
been  destitute  of  her  sister’s  taste  for  that  delightful  and 
truly  feminine  occupation.  And  here,  at  least,  you  perceive 
the  justice  of  the  Milby  opinion  as  to  the  relative  suitability 
of  the  two  Miss  Linnets  for  matrimony.  When  a  man  is 
happy  enough  to  win  the  affections  of  a  sweet  girl,  who  can 
soothe  his  cares  with  crochet,  and  respond  to  all  his  most 
cherished  ideas  with  beaded  urn-rugs  and  chair-covers  in  Ger¬ 
man  wool,  he  has,  at  least,  a  guarantee  of  domestic  comfort, 
whatever  trials  may  await  him  out  of  doors.  What  a  resource 
it  is  under  fatigue  and  irritation  to  have  your  drawing-room 
well  supplied  with  small  mats,  which  would  always  be  ready 
if  you  ever  wanted  to  set  anything  on  them  !  And  what 
styptic  for  a  bleeding  heart  can  equal  copious  squares  of 
crochet,  which  are  useful  for  slipping  down  the  moment  you 
touch  them  ?  How  our  fathers  managed  without  crochet  is 
the  wonder;  but  I  believe  some  small  and  feeble  substitute 
existed  in  their  time  under  the  name  of  “  tatting.”  Rebecca 
Linnet,  however,  had  neglected  tatting  as  well  as  other  forms 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


24S 


of  fancy-work.  At  school,  to  be  sure,  she  had  spent  a  great 
deal  of  time  in  acquiring  flower-painting,  according  to  the  in¬ 
genious  method  then  fashionable,  of  applying  the  shapes  of 
leaves  and  flowers  cut  out  in  cardboard,  and  scrubbing  a  brush 
over  the  surface  thus  conveniently  marked  out ;  but  even  the 
spill-cases  and  hand-screens  which  were  her  last  half-year’s 
performances  in  that  way  were  not  considered  eminently  suc¬ 
cessful,  and  had  long  been  consigned  to  the  retirement  of  the 
best  bedroom.  Thus  there  was  a  good  deal  of  family  unlike¬ 
ness  between  Rebecca  and  her  sister,  and  I  am  afraid  ther- 
was  also  a  little  family  dislike ;  but  Mary’s  disapproval  had 
usually  been  kept  imprisoned  behind  her  thin  lips,  for  Rebecca 
was  not  only  of  a  headstrong  disposition,  but  was  her  mother’s 
pet ;  the  old  lady  being  herself  stout,  and  preferring  a  more 
showy  style  of  cap  than  she  could  prevail  on  her  daughter 
Mary  to  make  up  for  her. 

But  I  have  been  describing  Miss  Rebecca  as  she  was  in 
former  days  only,  for  her  appearance  this  evening,  as  she  sits 
pasting  on  the  green  tickets,  is  in  striking  contrast  with  what 
it  was  three  or  four  months  ago.  Her  plain  gray  gingham 
dress  and  plain  white  collar  could  never  have  belonged  to  her 
wardrobe  before  that  date ;  and  though  she  is  not  reduced  in  . 
size,  and  her  brown  hair  will  do  nothing  but  hang  in  crisp 
ringlets  down  her  large  cheeks,  there  is  a  change  in  her  air  and 
expression  which  seems  to  shed  a  softened  light  over  her  per 
son,  and  make  her  look  like  a  peony  in  the  shade,  instead  o.i 
the  same  flower  flaunting  in  a  parterre  in  the  hot  sunlight. 

No  one  could  deny  that  Evangelicalism  had  wrought  a 
change  for  the  better  in  Rebecca  Linnet’s  person — not  even 
Miss  Pratt,  the  thin  stiff  lady  in  spectacles,  seated  opposite  to 
her,  who  always  had  a  peculiar  repulsion  for  u  females  with  a 
gross  habit  of  body.”  Miss  Pratt  was  an  old  maid ;  but  that 
is  a  no  more  definite  description  than  if  I  had  said  she  was  in 
the  autumn  of  life.  Was  it  autumn  when  the  orchards  are 
fragrant  with  apples,  or  autumn  when  the  oaks  are  brown,  or 
autumn  when  the  last  yellow  leaves  are  fluttering  in  the  chill 
breeze  ?  The  young  ladies  in  Milby  would  have  told  you  that 
the  Miss  Linnets  were  old  maids ;  but  the  Miss  Linnets  w  ere 


244 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


to  Miss  Pratt  what  the  apple-scented  September  is  to  the  bare, 
nipping  days  of  late  November.  The  Miss  Linnets  were  in  that 
temperate  zone  of  old-maidism,  when  a  woman  will  not  say  but 
that  if  a  man  of  suitable  years  and  character  were  to  offer  him¬ 
self,  she  might  be  induced  to  tread  the  remainder  of  life’s  vale 
in  company  with  him  ;  Miss  Pratt  was  in  that  arctic  region 

where  a  woman  is  confident  that  at  no  time  of  life  would  she 

♦ 

have  consented  to  give  up  her  liberty,  and  that  she  has  never 
seen  the  man  whom  she  would  engage  to  honor  and  obey.  If 
the  Miss  Linnets  were  old  maids,  they  were  old  maids  with 
natural  ringlets  and  embonpoint ,  not  to  say  obesity ;  Miss 
Pratt  was  an  old  maid  with  a  cap,  a  braided  “  front,”  a  back¬ 
bone  and  appendages.  Miss  Pratt  was  the  one  blue-stocking 
of  Milby,  possessing,  she  said,  no  less  than  five  hundred  vol¬ 
umes,  competent,  as  her  brother  the  doctor  often  observed,  to 
conduct  a  conversation  on  any  topic  whatever,  and  occasionally 
dabbling  a  little  in  authorship,  though  it  was  understood  that 
she  had  never  put  forth  the  full  powers  of  her  mind  in  print. 
Her  “  Letters  to  a  Young  Man  on  his  Entrance  into  Life,”  and 
“  Be  Courcy,  or  the  Rash  Promise,  a  Tale  for  Youth,”  were 
mere  trifles  which  she  had  been  induced  to  publish  because 
they  were  calculated  for  popular  utility,  but  they  were  nothing 
to  what  she  had  for  years  had  by  her  in  manuscript.  Her 
latest  production  had  been  Six  Stanzas,  addressed  to  the  Rev. 
Edgar  Tryan,  printed  on  glazed  paper  with  a  neat  border,  and 
beginning,  “  Forward,  young  wrestler  for  the  truth  !  ” 

Miss  Pratt  having  kept  her  brother’s  house  during  his  long 
widowhood,  his  daughter,  Miss  Eliza,  had  had  the  advantage 
of  being  educated  by  her  aunt,  and  thus  of  imbibing  a  very 
strong  antipathy  to  all  that  remarkable  woman’s  tastes  and 
opinions.  The  silent  handsome  girl  of  two-and-twenty  who  is 
covering  the  “  Memoirs  of  Felix  Neff,”  is  Miss  Eliza  Pratt ; 
and  the  small  elderly  lady  in  dowdy  clothing,  who  is  also 
working  diligently,  is  Mrs.  Pettifer,  a  superior-minded  widow, 
much  valued  in  Milby,  being  such  a  very  respectable  person 
to  have  in  the  house  in  case  of  illness,  and  of  quite  too  good 
a  family  to  receive  any  money-payment  —  you  could  always 
send  her  garden-stuff  that  would  make  her  ample  amends. 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


245 


Miss  Pratt  has  enough  to  do  in  commenting  on  the  heap  of 
volumes  before  her,  feeling  it  a  responsibility  entailed  on  her 
by  her  great  powers  of  mind  to  leave  nothing  without  the 
advantage  of  her  opinion.  Whatever  was  good  must  be 
sprinkled  with  the  chrism  of  her  approval ;  whatever  was  evil 
must  be  blighted  by  her  condemnation. 

“  Upon  my  word,”  she  said,  in  a  deliberate  high  voice,  as  if 
she  were  dictating  to  an  amanuensis,  “  it  is  a  most  admirable 
selection  of  works  for  popular  reading,  this  that  our  excellent 
Mr.  Tryan  has  made.  I  do  not  know  whether,  if  the  task  had 
been  confided  to  me,  I  could  have  made  a  selection,  combining 
in  a  higher  degree  religious  instruction  and  edification  with  a 
due  admixture  of  the  purer  species  of  amusement.  This  story 
of  ( Father  Clement’  is  a  library  in  itself  on  the  errors  of 
Romanism.  I  have  ever  considered  fiction  a  suitable  form  for 
conveying  moral  and  religious  instruction,  as  I  have  shown  in 
my  little  work  ‘De  Courcy,’  which,  as  a  very  clever  writer  in 
the  1  Crompton  Argus  ’  said  at  the  time  of  its  appearance,  is 
the  light  vehicle  of  a  weighty  moral.” 

“  One  ’ud  think,”  said  Mrs.  Linnet,  who  also  had  her  spec¬ 
tacles  on,  but  chiefly  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  what  the  others 
were  doing,  “  there  did  n’t  want  much  to  drive  people  away 
from  a  religion  as  makes  ’em  walk  barefoot  over  stone  floors, 
like  that  girl  in  6  Father  Clement’ — sending  the  blood  up  to 
the  head  frightful.  Anybody  might  see  that  was  an  unnat’ral 
creed.” 

“  Yes,”  said  Miss  Pratt,  “but  asceticism  is  not  the  root  of 
the  error,  as  Mr.  Tryan  was  telling  us  the  other  evening — it 
is  the  denial  of  the  great  doctrine  of  justification  by  faith. 
Much  as  I  had  reflected  on  all  subjects  in  the  course  of  my 
life,  I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  Tryan  for  opening  my  eyes  to  the 
full  importance  of  that  cardinal  doctrine  of  the  Reformation. 
From  a  child  I  had  a  deep  sense  of  religion,  but  in  my  early 
days  the  Gospel  light  wras  obscured  in  the  English  Church, 
notwithstanding  the  possession  of  our  incomparable  Liturgy, 
than  which  I  know  no  human  composition  more  faultless  and 
sublime.  As  I  tell  Eliza,  X  was  not  blest  as  she  is  at  the  age 
of  two-and-twenty,  in  knowing  a  clergyman  who  unites  all  that 


246 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


is  great  and  admirable  in  intellect  with  the  highest  spiritual 
gifts.  I  am  no  contemptible  judge  of  a  man’s  acquirements, 
and  I  assure  you  I  have  tested  Mr.  Tryan’s  by  questions  which 
are  a  pretty  severe  touchstone.  It  is  true,  I  sometimes  carry 
him  a  little  beyond  the  depth  of  the  other  listeners.  Pro¬ 
found  learning,”  continued  Miss  Pratt,  shutting  her  spectacles, 
and  tapping  them  on  the  book  before  her,  “  has  not  many  to 
estimate  it  in  Milby.” 

“  Miss  Pratt,”  said  Rebecca,  “  will  you  please  give  me 
‘  Scott’s  Force  of  Truth  ’  ?  There  —  that  small  book  lying 
against  the  ‘Life  of  Legh  Richmond.’ ” 

“  That ’s  a  book  I ’m  very  fond  of  —  the  e  Life  of  Legh 
Richmond,’  ”  said  Mrs.  Linnet.  “  He  found  out  all  about 
that  woman  at  Tutbury  as  pretended  to  live  without  eating. 
Stuff  and  nonsense  !  ” 

Mrs.  Linnet  had  become  a  reader  of  religious  books  since 
Mr.  Tryan’s  advent,  and  as  she  was  in  the  habit  of  confining 
her  perusal  to  the  purely  secular  portions,  which  bore  a  very 
small  proportion  to  the  whole,  she  could  make  rapid  progress 
through  a  large  number  of  volumes.  On  taking  up  the  biog¬ 
raphy  of  a  celebrated  preacher,  she  immediately  turned  to 
the  end  to  see  what  disease  he  died  of;  and  if  his  legs  swelled, 
as  her  own  occasionally  did,  she  felt  a  stronger  interest  in 
ascertaining  any  earlier  facts  in  the  history  of  the  dropsical 
divine  —  whether  he  had  ever  fallen  off  a  stage-coach,  whether 
he  had  married  more  than  one  wife,  and,  in  general,  any  ad¬ 
ventures  or  repartees,  recorded  of  him  previous  to  the  epoch 
of  his  conversion.  She  then  glanced  over  the  letters  and 
diary,  and  wherever  there  was  a  predominance  of  Zion,  the 
River  of  Life,  and  notes  of  exclamation,  she  turned  over  to 
the  next  page ;  but  any  passage  in  which  she  saw  such  promis¬ 
ing  nouns  as  “  smallpox,”  “  pony,”  or  “  boots  and  shoes,”  at 
once  arrested  her. 

“It  is  half-past  six  now,”  said  Miss  Linnet,  looking  at  her 
watch  as  the  servant  appeared  with  the  tea-tray.  “  I  suppose 
the  delegates  are  come  back  by  this  time.  If  Mr.  Trvan  had 
not  so  kindly  promised  to  call  and  let  us  know,  I  should  hardly 
rest  without  walking  to  Milby  myself  to  know  what  answer 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


241 


they  have  brought  back.  It  is  a  great  privilege  for  us,  Mr. 
Tryan  living  at  Mrs.  Wagstaff’s,  for  he  is  often  able  to  take, 
us  on  his  way  backwards  and  forwards  into  the  town.” 

“I  wonder  if  there's  another  man  in  the  world  who  has 
been  brought  up  as  Mr.  Tryan  has,  that  would  choose  to  live 
in  those  small  close  rooms  on  the  common,  among  heaps  of 
dirty  cottages,  for  the  sake  of  being  near  the  poor  people.” 
said  Mrs.  Pettifer.  “  I ’m  afraid  he  hurts  his  health  by  it ;  he 
looks  to  me  far  from  strong.” 

“Ah,”  said  Miss  Pratt,  “I  understand  he  is  of  a  highly 
respectable  family  indeed,  in  Huntingdonshire.  I  heard  him 
myself  speak  of  his  father’s  carriage  —  quite  incidentally,  you 
know  —  and  Eliza  tells  me  what  very  fine  cambric  handker¬ 
chiefs  he  uses.  My  eyes  are  not  good  enough  to  see  such 
things,  but  I  know  what  breeding  is  as  well  as  most  people, 
and  it  is  easy  to  see  that  Mr.  Tryan  is  quite  comme  ilfaw ,  to 
use  a  French  expression.” 

“  I  should  like  to  tell  him  better  nor  use  fine  cambric  i’  this 
place,  where  there’s  such  washing,  it’s  a  shame  to  be  seen,” 
said  Mrs.  Linnet ;  “  he  ’ll  get  ’em  tore  to  pieces.  Good  lawn 
’ud  be  far  better.  I  saw  what  a  color  his  linen  looked  at  the 
sacrament  last  Sunday.  Mary’s  making  him  a  black  silk  case 
to  hold  his  bands,  but  I  told  her  she ’d  more  need  wash  ’em 
for  him.” 

“  Oh,  mother !  ”  said  Rebecca,  with  a  solemn  severity*  “  pray 
don’t  think  of  pocket-handkerchiefs  and  linen,  when  we  are 
talking  of  such  a  man.  And  at  this  moment,  too,  when  he  is 
perhaps  having  to  bear  a  heavy  blow.  We  don’t  know  but 
wickedness  may  have  triumphed,  and  Mr.  Prendergast  may 
have  consented  to  forbid  the  lecture.  There  have  been  dis¬ 
pensations  quite  as  mysterious,  and  Satan  is  evidently  putting 
forth  all  his  strength  to  resist  the  entrance  of  the  Gospel  into 
Milby  Church.” 

“You  niver  spoke  a  truer  word  than  that,  my  dear,”  said 
Mrs.  Linnet,  who  accepted  all  religious  phrases,  but  was  ex¬ 
tremely- rationalistic  in  her  interpretation;  “for  if  iver  Old 
Harry  appeared  in  a  human  form,  it ’s  that  Dempster.  It  was 
all  through  him  as  we  got  cheated  out  o’  Pye’s  Croft,  making 


^48 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


out  as  the  title  was  n’t  good.  Such  lawyer’s  villany !  A»  if 
paying  good  money  was  n’t  title  enough  to  anything.  If  your 
father  as  is  dead  and  gone  had  been  worthy  to  know  it !  But 
he  ’ll  have  a  fall  some  day,  Dempster  will.  Mark  my  words.” 

“Ah,  out  of  his  carriage,  you  mean,”  said  Miss  Pratt,  who, 
in  the  movement  occasioned  by  the  clearing  of  the  table,  had 
lost  the  first  part  of  Mrs.  Linnet’s  speech.  “  It  certainly  is 
alarming  to  see  him  driving  home  from  Rotherby,  flogging  his 
galloping  horse  like  a  madman.  My  brother  has  often  said  he 
expected  every  Thursday  evening  to  be  called  in  to  set  some 
of  Dempster’s  bones ;  but  I  suppose  he  may  drop  that  expecta¬ 
tion  now,  for  we  are  given  to  understand  from  good  authority 
that  he  has  forbidden  his  wife  to  call  my  brother  in  again 
either  to  herself  or  her  mother.  He  swears  no  Tryanite 
doctor  shall  attend  his  family.  I  have  reason  to  believe  that 
Pilgrim  was  called  in  to  Mrs.  Dempster’s  mother  the  other 
day.” 

“Poor  Mrs.  Raynor!  she’s  glad  to  do  anything  for  the  sake 
of  peace  and  quietness,”  said  Mrs.  Pettifer;  “but  it’s  no  trifle 
at  her  time  of  life  to  part  with  a  doctor  who  knows  her 
constitution.” 

“What  trouble  that  poor  woman  has  to  bear  in  her  old 
age !  ”  said  Mary  Linnet,  “  to  see  her  daughter  leading  such  a 
life  !  —  an  only  daughter,  too,  that  she  dotes  on.” 

“Yes,  indeed,”  said  Miss  Pratt.  “We,  of  course,  know 
more  about  it  than  most  people,  my  brother  having  attended 
the  family  so  many  years.  For  my  part,  I  never  thought  well 
of  the  marriage ;  and  I  endeavored  to  dissuade  my  brother 
when  Mrs.  Raynor  asked  him  to  give  Janet  away  at  the  wed¬ 
ding.  ‘If  you  will  take  my  advice,  Richard,’  I  said,  ‘you  will 
have  nothing  to  do  with  that  marriage.’  And  he  has  seen  the 
justice  of  my  opinion  since.  Mrs.  Raynor  herself  was  against 
the  connection  at  first;  but  she  always  spoiled  Janet;  and  I 
fear,  too,  she  was  won  over  by  a  foolish  pride  in  having  her 
daughter  marry  a  professional  man.  I  fear  it  was  so.  No 
one  but  myself,  I  think,  foresaw  the  extent  of  the  evil.” 

“Well,”  said  Mrs.  Pettifer,  “Janet  had  nothing  to  look  to 
but  being  a  governess ;  and  it  was  hard  for  Mrs.  Raynor  to 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


249 


have  to  work  at  millinering  —  a  woman  well  brought  up,  and 
her  husband  a  man  who  held  his  head  as  high  as  any  man  in 
Thurston.  And  it  is  n’t  everybody  that  sees  everything  fifteen 
years  beforehand.  Robert  Dempster  was  the  cleverest  man  in 
Milby;  and  there  weren’t  many  young  men  fit  to  talk  to 
Janet/ 

“  It  is  a  thousand  pities,”  said  Miss  Pratt,  choosing  to  ignore 
Mrs.  Pettifer’s  slight  sarcasm,  “  for  I  certainly  did  consider 
Janet  Raynor  the  most  promising  young  woman  of  my  ac¬ 
quaintance  ;  —  a  little  too  much  lifted  up,  perhaps,  by  her 
superior  education,  and  too  much  given  to  satire,  but  able  to 
express  herself  very  well  indeed  about  any  book  I  recom¬ 
mended  to  her  perusal.  There  is  no  young  woman  in  Milby 
now  who  can  be  compared  with  what  Janet  was  when  she  was 
married,  either  in  mind  or  person.  I  consider  Miss  Landor 
far,  far  below  her.  Indeed,  I  cannot  say  much  for  the  mental 
superiority  of  the  young  ladies  in  our  first  families.  They  are 
superficial  —  very  superficial.” 

“  She  made  the  handsomest  bride  that  ever  came  out  of 
Milby  church,  too,”  said  Mrs.  Pettifer.  “Such  a  very  fine 
figure  !  and  it  showed  off  her  white  poplin  so  well.  And  what 
a  pretty  smile  Janet  always  had  !  Poor  thing,  she  keeps  that 
now  for  all  her  old  friends.  I  never  see  her  but  she  has 
something  pretty  to  say  to  me  —  living  in  the  same  street,  you 
know,  I  can’t  help  seeing  her  often,  though  I  Ve  never  been 
to  the  house  since  Dempster  broke  out  on  me  in  one  of  his 
drunken  fits.  She  comes  to  me  sometimes,  poor  thing,  look¬ 
ing  so  strange,  anybody  passing  her  in  the  street  may  see  plain 
enough  what ’s  the  matter  ;  but  she ’s  always  got  some  little 
good-natured  plan  in  her  head  for  all  that.  Only  last  night 
when  I  met  her,  I  saw  five  yards  off  she  was  n’t  fit  to  be 
out ;  but  she  had  a  basin  in  her  hand,  full  of  something  she 
was  carrying  to  Sally  Martin,  the  deformed  girl  that’s  in  a 
consumption.” 

“  But  she  is  just  as  bitter  against  Mr.  Tryan  as  her  husband 
is,  I  understand,”  said  Rebecca.  u  Her  heart  is  very  much  set 
against  the  truth,  for  I  understand  she  bought  Mr.  Tryan’s 
sermons  on  purpose  to  ridicule  them  to  Mrs.  Crewe.” 


250 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


"Well,  poor  thing/’  said  Mrs.  Pettifer,  “you  know  she 
stands  up  for  everything  her  husband  says  and  does.  She 
never  will  admit  to  anybody  that  he ’s  not  a  good  husband.” 

“  That  is  her  pride,”  said  Miss  Pratt.  “  She  married  him 
in  opposition  to  the  advice  of  her  best  friends,  and  now  she  is 
not  willing  to  admit  that  she  was  wrong.  Why,  even  to  my 
brother  —  and  a  medical  attendant,  you  know,  can  hardly  fail 
to  be  acquainted  with  family  secrets  —  she  has  always  pre¬ 
tended  to  have  the  highest  respect  for  her  husband’s  qualities. 
Poor  Mrs.  Raynor,  however,  is  well  aware  that  every  one 
knows  the  real  state  of  things.  Latterly,  she  has  not  even 
avoided  the  subject  with  me.  The  very  last  time  I  called  on 
her  she  said,  ‘  Have  you  been  to  see  my  poor  daughter  ? ?  and 
burst  into  tears.” 

“  Pride  or  no  pride,”  said  Mrs.  Pettifer,  “  I  shall  always 
stand  up  for  Janet  Dempster.  She  sat  up  with  me  night  after 
night  when  I  had  that  attack  of  rheumatic  fever  six  years 
ago.  There’s  great  excuses  for  her.  When  a  woman  can’t 
think  of  her  husband  coming  home  without  trembling,  it ’s 
enough  to  make  her  drink  something  to  blunt  her  feelings  — 
and  no  children  either,  to  keep  her  from  it.  You  and  me 
might  do  the  same,  if  we  were  in  her  place.” 

“  Speak  for  yourself,  Mrs.  Pettifer,”  said  Miss  Pratt. 
“Under  no  circumstances  can  I  imagine  myself  resorting  to 
a  practice  so  degrading.  A  woman  should  find  support  in  her 
own  strength  of  mind.” 

“I  think,”  said  Rebecca,  who  considered  Miss  Pratt  still 
very  blind  in  spiritual  things,  notwithstanding  her  assumption 
of  enlightenment,  “she  will  find  poor  support  if  she  trusts 
only  to  her  own  strength.  She  must  seek  aid  elsewhere  than 
in  herself.” 

Happily  the  removal  of  the  tea-things  just  then  created  a 
little  confusion,  which  aided  Miss  Pratt  to  repress  her  resent¬ 
ment  at  Rebecca’s  presumption  in  correcting  her  —  a  person 
like  Rebecca  Linnet !  who  six  months  ago  was  as  flighty  and 
vain  a  woman  as  Miss  Pratt  had  ever  known  —  so  very  uncon¬ 
scious  of  her  unfortunate  person  ! 

The  ladies  had  scarcely  been  seated  at  their  work  another 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


251 


hour,  when  the  sun  was  sinking,  and  the  clouds  that  flecked 
the  sky  to  the  very  zenith  were  every  moment  taking  on  a 
brighter  gold.  The  gate  of  the  little  garden  opened,  and  Miss 
Linnet,  seated  at  her  small  table  near  the  window,  saw  Mr. 
Tryan  enter. 

“  There  is  Mr.  Tryan,”  she  said,  and  her  pale  cheek  was 
lighted  up  with  a  little  blush  that  would  have  made  her  look 
more  attractive  to  almost  any  one  except  Miss  Eliza  Pratt, 
whose  fine  gray  eyes  allowed  few  things  to  escape  her  silent 
observation.  “  Mary  Linnet  gets  more  and  more  in  love  with 
Mr.  Tryan,”  thought  Miss  Eliza ;  “  it  is  really  pitiable  to  see 
such  feelings  in  a  woman  of  her  age,  with  those  old-maidish 
little  ringlets.  I  dare  say  she  flatters  herself  Mr.  Tryan  may 
fall  in  love  with  her,  because  he  makes  her  useful  among  the 
poor.”  At  the  same  time,  Miss  Eliza,  as  she  bent  her  hand¬ 
some  head  and  large  cannon  curls  with  apparent  calmness  over 
her  work,  felt  a  considerable  internal  flutter  when  she  heard 
the  knock  at  the  door.  Rebecca  had  less  self-command.  She 
felt  too  much  agitated  to  go  on  with  her  pasting,  and  clutched 
the  leg  of  the  table  to  counteract  the  trembling  in  her  hands. 

Poor  women’s  hearts !  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  laugh 
at  you,  and  make  cheap  jests  on  your  susceptibility  towards 
the  clerical  sex,  as  if  it  had  nothing  deeper  or  more  lovely  in 
it  than  the  mere  vulgar  angling  for  a  husband.  Even  in  these 
enlightened  days,  many  a  curate  who,  considered  abstractedly, 
is  nothing  more  than  a  sleek  bimanous  animal  in  a  white 
neckcloth,  with  views  more  or  less  Anglican,  and  furtively  ad¬ 
dicted  to  the  flute,  is  adored  by  a  girl  who  has  coarse  brothers, 
or  by  a  solitary  woman  who  would  like  to  be  a  helpmate  in 
good  works  beyond  her  own  means,  simply  because  he  seems 
to  them  the  model  of  refinement  and  of  public  usefulness. 
What  wonder,  then,  that  in  Milby  society,  such  as  I  have  told 
you  it  was  a  very  long  while  ago,  a  zealous  evangelical  clergy¬ 
man,  aged  thirty-three,  called  forth  all  the  little  agitations 
that  belong  to  the  divine  necessity  of  loving,  implanted  in  the 
Miss  Linnets,  with  their  seven  or  eight  lustrums  and  their 
unfashionable  ringlets,  no  less  than  in  Miss  Eliza  Pratt,  with 
her  youthful  bloom  and  hev  ample  cannon  curls. 


252  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

But  Mr.  Try  an  has  entered  the  room,  and  the  strange  light 
from  the  golden  sky  falling  on  his  light-brown  hair,  which  is 
brushed  high  up  round  his  head,  makes  it  look  almost  like  an 
aureole.  His  gray  eyes,  too,  shine  with  unwonted  brilliancy 
this  evening.  They  were  not  remarkable  eyes,  but  they 
accorded  completely  in  their  changing  light  with  the  changing 
expression  of  his  person,  which  indicated  the  paradoxical 
character  often  observable  in  a  large-limbed  sanguine  blond ; 
at  once  mild  and  irritable,  gentle  and  overbearing,  indolent 
and  resolute,  self-conscious  and  dreamy.  Except  that  the 
well-filled  lips  had  something  of  the  artificially  compressed 
'.ook  which  is  often  the  sign  of  a  struggle  to  keep  the  dragon 
undermost,  and  that  the  complexion  was  rather  pallid,  giving 
the  idea  of  imperfect  health,  Mr.  Tryan’s  face  in  repose  was 
that  of  an  ordinary  whiskerless  blond,  and  it  seemed  difficult  to 
refer  a  certain  air  of  distinction  about  him  to  anything  in  par¬ 
ticular,  unless  it  were  his  delicate  hands  and  well-shapen  feet. 

It  was  a  great  anomaly  to  the  Milby  mind  that  a  canting 
evangelical  parson,  who  would  take  tea  with  tradespeople, 
and  make  friends  of  vulgar  women  like  the  Linnets,  should 
have  so  much  the  air  of  a  gentleman,  and  be  so  little  like  the 
splay-footed  Mr.  Stickney  of  Salem,  to  whom  he  approxi¬ 
mated  so  closely  in  doctrine.  And  this  want  of  correspond¬ 
ence  between  the  physique  and  the  creed  had  excited  no  less 
surprise  in  the  larger  town  of  Laxeter,  where  Mr.  Tryan  had 
formerly  held  a  curacy  ;  for  of  the  two  other  Low  Church 
clergymen  in  the  neighborhood,  one  was  a  Welshman  of 
globose  figure  and  unctuous  complexion,  and  the  other  a  man 
of  atrabiliar  aspect,  with  lank  black  hair,  and  a  redundance  of 
limp  cravat  —  in  fact,  the  sort  of  thing  you  might  expect  in 
men  who  distributed  the  publications  of  the  Religious  Tract 
Society,  and  introduced  Dissenting  hymns  into  the  Church. 

Mr.  Tryan  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Linnet,  bowed  with 
rather  a  preoccupied  air  to  the  other  ladies,  and  seated  him¬ 
self  in  the  large  horse-hair  easy-chair  which  had  been  drawn 
forward  for  him,  while  the  ladies  ceased  from  their  work, 
and  fixed  their  eyes  on  him,  awaiting  the  news  he  had  to 
tell  them. 


JANETS  REPENTANCE. 


253 


“  It  seems,”  he  began,  in  a  low  and  silvery  tone,  “  I  need  a 
lesson  of  patience  ;  there  has  been  something  wrong  in  my 
thought  or  action  about  this  evening  lecture.  I  have  been  too 
much  bent  on  doing  good  to  Milby  after  my  own  plan  —  too 
reliant  on  my  own  wisdom.” 

Mr.  Try  an  paused.  He  was  struggling  against  inward 
irritation. 

“  The  delegates  are  come  back,  then  ?  ”  “  Has  Mr.  Pren- 

dergast  given  way  ?  ”  “  Has  Dempster  succeeded  ?  ”  —  were 

the  eager  questions  of  three  ladies  at  once. 

“  Yes ;  the  town  is  in  an  uproar.  As  we  were  sitting  in 
Mr.  Landor’s  drawing-room  we  heard  a  loud  cheering,  and 
presently  Mr.  Tlirupp,  the  clerk  at  the  bank,  who  had  been 
waiting  at  the  Bed  Lion  to  hear  the  result,  came  to  let  us 
know.  He  said  Dempster  had  been  making  a  speech  to  the 
mob  out  of  the  window.  They  were  distributing  drink  to  the 
people,  and  hoisting  placards  in  great  letters,  —  e  Down  with 
the  Tryanites  ! ?  ‘ Down  with  cant !  ’  They  had  a  hideous 

caricature  of  me  being  tripped-up  and  pitched  head-foremost 
out  of  the  pulpit.  Good  old  Mr.  Landor  would  insist  on  send¬ 
ing  me  round  in  the  carriage;  he  thought  I  should  not  be 
safe  from  the  mob ;  but  I  got  down  at  the  Crossways.  The 
row  was  evidently  preconcerted  by  Dempster  before  he  set 
out.  He  made  sure  of  succeeding.” 

Mr.  Tryan’s  utterance  had  been  getting  rather  louder  and 
more  rapid  in  the  course  of  this  speech,  and  he  now  added,  in 
the  energetic  chest-voice,  which,  both  in  and  out  of  the  pulpit, 
alternated  continually  with  his  more  silvery  notes  — 

“But  his  triumph  will  be  a  short  one.  If  he  thinks  he  can 
intimidate  me  by  obloquy  or  threats,  he  has  mistaken  the  man 
he  has  to  deal  with.  Mr.  Dempster  and  his  colleagues  will  find 
themselves  checkmated  after  all.  Mr.  Prendergast  has  been 
false  to  his  own  conscience  in  this  business.  He  knows  as 
well  as  I  do  that  he  is  throwing  away  the  souls  of  the  people 
by  leaving  things  as  they  are  in  the  parish.  But  I  shall  appeal 
to  the  Bishop  —  I  am  confident  of  his  sympathy.” 

“  The  Bishop  will  be  coming  shortly,  I  suppose,”  said  Mi*fl 
Pratt,  “  to  hold  a  confirmation  ?  ” 


254 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


“  Yes  ;  but  I  shall  write  to  him  at  once,  and  lay  the  case  be 
fore  him.  Indeed,  I  must  hurry  away  now,  for  I  have  many 
matters  to  attend  to.  You,  ladies,  have  been  kindly  helping 
me  with  your  labors,  I  see,”  continued  Mr.  Tryan,  politely, 
glancing  at  the  canvas-covered  books  as  he  rose  from  his  seat. 
Then,  turning  to  Mary  Linnet :  “  Our  library  is  really  getting 
on,  I  think.  You  and  your  sister  have  quite  a  heavy  task  of 
distribution  now.” 

Poor  Rebecca  felt  it  very  hard  to  bear  that  Mr.  Tryan  did 
not  turn  towards  her  too.  If  he  knew  how  much  she  entered 
into  his  feelings  about  the  lecture,  and  the  interest  she  took  in 
the  library.  Well !  perhaps  it  was  her  lot  to  be  overlooked  — 
and  it  might  be  a  token  of  mercy.  Even  a  good  man  might 
not  always  know  the  heart  that  was  most  with  him.  But  the 
next  moment  poor  Mary  had  a  pang,  when  Mr.  Tryan  turned 
to  Miss  Eliza  Pratt,  and  the  preoccupied  expression  of  his  face 
melted  into  that  beaming  timidity  with  which  a  man  almost 
always  addresses  a  pretty  woman. 

“  I  have  to  thank  you,  too,  Miss  Eliza,  for  seconding  me  so 
well  in  your  visits  to  Joseph  Mercer.  The  old  man  tells  me 
how  precious  he  finds  your  reading  to  him,  now  he  is  no  longer 
able  to  go  to  church.” 

Miss  Eliza  only  answered  by  a  blush,  which  made  her  look 
all  the  handsomer,  but  her  aunt  said  — 

“  Yes,  Mr.  Tryan,  I  have  ever  inculcated  on  my  dear  Eliza 
the  importance  of  spending  her  leisure  in  being  useful  to  her 
fellow-creatures.  Your  example  and  instruction  have  been 
quite  in  the  spirit  of  the  system  which  I  have  always  pursued, 
though  we  are  indebted  to  you  for  a  clearer  view  of  the  motives 
that  should  actuate  us  in  our  pursuit  of  good  works.  Not  that 
I  can  accuse  myself  of  having  ever  had  a  self-righteous  spirit, 
but  my  humility  was  rather  instinctive  than  based  on  a  firm 
ground  of  doctrinal  knowledge,  such  as  you  so  admirably  im¬ 
part  to  us.” 

Mrs.  Linnet’s  usual  entreaty  that  Mr.  Tryan  would  “  have 
something  —  some  wine-and-water,  and  a  biscuit,”  was  just 
here  a  welcome  relief  from  the  necessity  of  answering  Miss 
Pratt’s  oration. 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


“Not  anything,  my  dear  Mrs.  Linnet,  thank  you.  You  for¬ 
get  what  a  Rechabite  I  am.  By  the  bye,  when  I  went  this 
morning  to  see  a  poor  girl  in  Butcher’s  Lane,  whom  I  had  heard 
of  as  being  in  a  consumption,  I  found  Mrs.  Dempster  there.  I 
had  often  met  her  in  the  street,  but  did  not  know  it  was  Mrs. 
Dempster.  It  seems  she  goes  among  the  poor  a  good  deal.  She 
is  really  an  interesting-looking  woman.  I  was  quite  surprised, 
for  I  have  heard  the  worst  account  of  her  habits  — that  she  is 
almost  as  bad  as  her  husband.  She  went  out  hastily  as  soon  as 
I  entered.  But  ”  (apologetically)  “  I  am  keeping  you  all  stand¬ 
ing,  and  I  must  really  hurry  away.  Mrs.  Petti fer,  I  have  not 
had  the  pleasure  of  calling  on  you  for  some  time ;  I  shall  take 
an  early  opportunity  of  going  your  way.  Good  evening,  good 
evening.” 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Mr.  Tryan  was  right  in  saying  tnat  the  “row”  in  Miib? 
had  been  preconcerted  by  Dempster.  The  placards  and  the 
caricature  were  prepared  before  the  departure  of  the  delegates  : 
and  it  had  been  settled  that  Mat  Paine,  Dempster’s  clerk, 
should  ride  out  on  Thursday  morning  to  meet  them  at  Whit¬ 
low,  the  last  place  where  they  would  change  horses,  that  he 
might  gallop  back  and  prepare  an  ovation  for  the  triumvirate 
in  case  of  their  success.  Dempster  had  determined  to  dine  at 
Whitlow  :  so  that  Mat  Paine  was  in  Milby  again  two  hours 
before  the  entrance  of  the  delegates,  and  had  time  to  send  a 
whisper  up  the  back  streets  that  there  was  promise  of  a 
“spree”  in  the  Bridge  Way,  as  well  as  to  assemble  two  knots 
of  picked  men  —  one  to  feed  the  flame  of  orthodox  zeal  with 
gin-and-water,  at  the  Green  Man,  near  High  Street;  the  other 
to  solidify  their  church  principles  with  heady  beer  at  the  Bear 
and  Ragged  Staff  in  the  Bridge  Way. 

The  Bridge  Way  was  an  irregular  straggling  street,  where 
the  town  fringed  off  raggedly  into  the  Whitlow  road  :  rows  of 


256 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


new  red-brick  houses,  in  which  ribbon-looms  were  rattling  be 
hind  long  lines  of  window,  alternating  with  old,  half-thatched, 
half-tiled  cottages — one  of  those  dismal  wide  streets  where 
dirt  and  misery  have  no  long  shadows  thrown  on  them  to 
soften  their  ugliness.  Here,  about  half-past  five  o’clock,  Silly 
Caleb,  an  idiot  well  known  in  Dog  Lane,  but  more  of  a  stranger 
in  the  Bridge  Way,  was  seen  slouching  along  with  a  string  of 
boys  hooting  at  his  heels ;  presently  another  group,  for  the 
most  part  out  at  elbows,  came  briskly  in  the  same  direction, 
looking  round  them  with  an  air  of  expectation  ;  and  at  no  long 
interval,  Deb  Traunter,  in  a  pink  flounced  gown  and  floating 
ribbons,  was  observed  talking  with  great  affability  to  two  men 
in  seal-skin  caps  and  fustian,  who  formed  her  cortege.  The 
Bridge  Way  began  to  have  a  presentiment  of  something  in  the 
wind.  Phib  Cook  left  her  evening  wash-tub  and  appeared  at 
her  door  in  soap-suds,  a  bonnet-poke,  and  general  dampness ; 
three  narrow-chested  ribbon-weavers,  in  rusty  black  streaked 
with  shreds  of  many-colored  silk,  sauntered  out  with  their 
hands  in  their  pockets  ;  and  Molly  Beale,  a  brawny  old  virago, 
descrying  wiry  Dame  Picketts  peeping  out  from  her  entry, 
seized  the  opportunity  of  renewing  the  morning’s  skirmish. 
In  short,  the  Bridge  Way  was  in  that  state  of  excitement  which 
is  understood  to  announce  a  “  demonstration  ”  on  the  part  of 
the  British  public ;  and  the  afflux  of  remote  townsmen  increas¬ 
ing,  there  was  soon  so  large  a  crowd  that  it  war  time  for  Bill 
Powers,  a  plethoric  Goliath,  who  presided  over  the  knot  of 
beer-drinkers  at  the  Bear  and  Bagged  Staff,  to  issue  forth  with 
his  companions,  and,  like  the  enunciator  of  the  ancient  myth, 
make  the  assemblage  distinctly  conscious  of  the  common  senti¬ 
ment  that  had  drawn  them  together.  The  expectation  of  the 
delegates’  chaise,  added  to  the  fight  between  Molly  Beale  and 
Dame  Picketts,  and  the  ill-advised  appearance  of  a  lean  bull- 
terrier,  were  a  sufficient  safety-valve  to  the  popular  excitement 
during  the  remaining  quarter  of  an  hour ;  at  the  end  of  which 
the  chaise  was  seen  approaching  along  the  Whitlow  road,  with 
oak  boughs  ornamenting  the  horses’  heads ;  and,  to  quote  the 
account  of  this  interesting  scene  which  was  sent  to  the  “Both- 
erby  Guardian,”  "  loud  cheers  immediately  testified  to  the  sym- 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


257 


pathy  of  the  honest  fellows  collected  there,  with  the  public- 
spirited  exertions  of  their  fellow-townsmen.”  Bill  Powers, 
whose  bloodshot  eyes,  bent  hat,  and  protuberant  altitude, 
marked  him  out  as  the  natural  leader  of  the  assemblage,  under¬ 
took  to  interpret  the  common  sentiment  by  stopping  the  chaise, 
advancing  to  the  door  with  raised  hat,  and  begging  to  know  of 
Mr.  Dempster,  whether  the  Rector  had  forbidden  the  “  canting 
lecture.” 

“Yes,  yes,”  said  Mr.  Dempster.  “Keep  up  a  jolly  good 
hurray.” 

No  public  duty  could  have  been  more  easy  and  agreeable  to 
Mr.  Powers  and  his  associates,  and  the  chorus  swelled  all  the 
way  to  the  High  Street,  where,  by  a  mysterious  coincidence 
often  observable  in  these  spontaneous  “demonstrations,”  large 
placards  on  long  poles  were  observed  to  shoot  upwards  from 
among  the  crowd,  principally  in  the  direction  of  Tucker’s 
Lane,  where  the  Green  Man  was  situated.  One  bore,  “Down 
with  the  Tryanites  !  ”  another,  “No  Cant !  ”  another,  "  Long 
live  our  venerable  Curate !  ”  and  one  in  still  larger  letters, 
“  Sound  Church  principles  and  no  Hypocrisy  !  ”  But  a  still 
more  remarkable  impromptu  was  a  huge  caricature  of  Mr. 
Tryan  in  gown  and  band,  with  an  enormous  aureole  of  yellow 
hair  and  upturned  eyes,  standing  on  the  pulpit  stairs  and 
trying  to  pull  down  old  Mr.  Crewe.  Groans,  yells,  and  hisses 
—  hisses,  yells,  and  groans  —  only  stemmed  by  the  appearance 
of  another  caricature  representing  Mr.  Tryan  being  pitched 
head-foremost  from  the  pulpit  stairs  by  a  hand  which  the 
artist,  either  from  subtilty  of  intention  or  want  of  space,  had 
left  unindicated.  In  the  midst  of  the  tremendous  cheering 
that  saluted  this  piece  of  symbolical  art,  the  chaise  had  reached 
the  door  of  the  Red  Lion,  and  loud  cries  of  “  Dempster  for¬ 
ever  !  ”  with  a  feebler  cheer  now  and  then  for  Tomlinson  and 
Budd,  were  presently  responded  to  by  the  appearance  of  the 
public-spirited  attorney  at  the  large  upper  window,  where  also 
were  visible  a  little  in  the  background  the  small  sleek  head 
of  Mr.  Budd,  and  the  blinking  countenance  of  Mr.  Tomlinson. 

Mr.  Dempster  held  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  poked  his  head 
forward  with  a  butting  motion  by  way  of  bow.  A  storm  of 

17 


VOL.  IV. 


258 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


cheers  subsided  at  last  into  dropping  sounds  of  “Silence!* 
“  Hear  him  !  ”  “  Go  it,  Dempster  !  ”  and  the  lawyer’s  rasping 
voice  became  distinctly  audible. 

“  Fellow-townsmen  !  It  gives  us  the  sincerest  pleasure  — 
I  speak  for  my  respected  colleagues  as  well  as  myself  —  to 
witness  these  strong  proofs  of  your  attachment  to  the  princi¬ 
ples  of  our  excellent  Church,  and  your  zeal  for  the  honor  of 
our  venerable  pastor.  But  it  is  no  more  than  I  expected  of 
you.  I  know  you  well.  I ’ve  known  you  for  the  last  twenty 
years  to  be  as  honest  and  respectable  a  set  of  rate-payers  as 
any  in  this  county.  Your  hearts  are  sound  to  the  core  !  No 
man  had  better  try  to  thrust  his  cant  and  hypocrisy  down 
your  throats.  You  ’re  used  to  wash  them  with  liquor  of  a 
better  flavor.  This  is  the  proudest  moment  in  my  own  life, 
and  I  think  I  may  say  in  that  of  my  colleagues,  in  which  I 
have  to  tell  you  that  our  exertions  in  the  cause  of  sound  relig¬ 
ion  and  manly  morality  have  been  crowned  with  success.  Yes, 
my  fellow-townsmen  !  I  have  the  gratification  of  announcing 
to  you  thus  formally  what  you  have  already  learned  indirectly. 
The  pulpit  from  which  our  venerable  pastor  has  fed  us  with 
sound  doctrine  for  half  a  century  is  not  to  be  invaded  by  a 
fanatical,  sectarian,  double-faced,  Jesuitical  interloper  !  We 
are  not  to  have  our  young  people  demoralized  and  corrupted 
by  the  temptations  to  vice,  notoriously  connected  with  Sunday 
evening  lectures !  We  are  not  to  have  a  preacher  obtruding 
himself  upon  us,  who  decries  good  works,  and  sneaks  into  our 
homes  perverting  the  faith  of  our  wives  and  daughters !  We 
are  not  to  be  poisoned  with  doctrines  which  damp  every  inno¬ 
cent  enjoyment,  and  pick  a  poor  man’s  pocket  of  the  sixpence 
with  which  he  might  buy  himself  a  cheerful  glass  after  a  hard 
day’s  work,  under  pretence  of  paying  for  bibles  to  send  to  the 
Chicktaws  ! 

“  But  I ’m  not  going  to  waste  your  valuable  time  with  un¬ 
necessary  words.  I  am  a  man  of  deeds  ”  (“  Ay,  damn  you, 
that  you  are,  and  you  charge  well  for  ’em  too,”  said  a  voice 
from  the  crowd,  probably  that  of  a  gentleman  who  was  imme¬ 
diately  afterwards  observed  with  his  hat  crushed  over  his 
head).  “  I  shall  always  be  at  the  service  of  my  fellow-towns- 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


259 


men,  and  whoever  dares  to  hector  over  you,  or  interfere  with 
your  innocent  pleasures,  shall  have  an  account  to  settle  with 
Robert  Dempster. 

“  Now,  my  boys  !  you  can’t  do  better  than  disperse  and 
carry  the  good  news  to  all  your  fellow-townsmen,  whose  hearts 
are  as  sound  as  your  own.  Let  some  of  you  go  one  way  and 
some  another,  that  every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  Milby  may 
know  what  you  know  yourselves.  But  before  we  part,  let  us 
have  three  cheers  for  True  Religion,  and  down  with  Cant !  ” 

When  the  last  cheer  was  dying,  Mr.  Dempster  closed  the 
window,  and  the  judiciously  instructed  placards  and  carica¬ 
tures  moved  off  in  divers  directions,  followed  by  larger  or 
smaller  divisions  of  the  crowd.  The  greatest  attraction  ap¬ 
parently  lay  in  the  direction  of  Dog  Lane,  the  outlet  towards 
Paddiford  Common,  whither  the  caricatures  were  moving; 
and  you  foresee,  of  course,  that  those  works  of  symbolical  art 
were  consumed  with  a  liberal  expenditure  of  dry  gorse-bushes 
and  vague  shouting. 

After  these  great  public  exertions,  it  was  natural  that  Mr. 
Dempster  and  his  colleagues  should  feel  more  in  need  than 
usual  of  a  little  social  relaxation  ;*  and  a  party  of  their  friends 
was  already  beginning  to  assemble  in  the  large  parlor  of  the 
Red  Lion,  convened  partly  by  their  own  curiosity,  and  partly 
by  the  invaluable  Mat  Paine.  The  most  capacious  punch-bowl 
was  put  in  requisition  ;  and  that  born  gentleman,  Mr.  Lowme, 
seated  opposite  Mr.  Dempster  as  “  Vice,”  undertook  to  brew 
the  punch,  defying  the  criticisms  of  the  envious  men  out  of 
office,  who,  with  the  readiness  of  irresponsibility,  ignorantly 
suggested  more  lemons.  The  social  festivities  were  continued 
till  long  past  midnight,  when  several  friends  of  sound  religion 
were  conveyed  home  with  some  difficulty,  one  of  them  show¬ 
ing  a  dogged  determination  to  seat  himself  in  the  gutter. 

Mr.  Dempster  had  done  as  much  justice  to  the  punch  as 
any  of  the  party ;  and  his  friend  Boots,  though  aware  that  the 
lawyer  could  “  carry  his  liquor  like  Old  Nick,”  with  whose 
social  demeanor  Boots  seemed  to  be  particularly  well  ac¬ 
quainted,  nevertheless  thought  it  might  be  as  well  to  see  so 
good  a  customer  in  safety  to  his  own  door,  and  walked  quietly 


260 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


behind  his  elbow  out  of  the  inn-yard.  Dempster,  however, 
soon  became  aware  of  him,  stopped  short,  and,  turning  slowly 
round  upon  him,  recognized  the  well-known  drab  waistcoat 
sleeves,  conspicuous  enough  in  the  starlight. 

“  You  twopenny  scoundrel !  What  do  you  mean  by  dogging 
a  professional  man’s  footsteps  in  this  way  ?  I  ’ll  break  every 
bone  in  your  skin  if  you  attempt  to  track  me,  like  a  beastly 
cur  sniffing  at  one’s  pocket.  Do  you  think  a  gentleman  will 
make  his  way  home  any  the  better  for  having  the  scent  of 
your  blacking-bottle  thrust  up  his  nostrils  ?  ” 

Boots  slunk  back,  in  more  amusement  than  ill-humor,  think¬ 
ing  the  lawyer’s  “  rum  talk  ”  was  doubtless  part  and  parcel  of 
his  professional  ability ;  and  Mr.  Dempster  pursued  his  slow 
way  alone. 

His  house  lay  in  Orchard  Street,  which  opened  on  the 
prettiest  outskirt  of  the  town  —  the  church,  the  parsonage, 
and  a  long  stretch  of  green  fields.  It  was  an  old-fashioned 
house,  with  an  overhanging  upper  storey;  outside,  it  had  a 
face  of  rough  stucco,  and  casement  windows  with  green  frames 
and  shutters  ;  inside,  it  was  full  of  long  passages,  and  rooms 
with  low  ceilings.  There  was  a  large  heavy  knocker  on  the 
green  door,  and  though  Mr.  Dempster  carried  a  latch-key,  he 
sometimes  chose  to  use  the  knocker.  He  chose  to  do  so  now. 
The  thunder  resounded  through  Orchard  Street,  and,  after  a 
single  minute,  there  was  a  second  clap  louder  than  the  first. 
Another  minute,  and  still  the  door  was  not  opened  ;  whereupon 
Mr.  Dempster,  muttering,  took  out  his  latch-key,  and,  with  less 
difficulty  than  might  have  been  expected,  thrust  it  into  the 
door.  When  he  opened  the  door  the  passage  was  dark. 

“  J anet !  ”  in  the  loudest  rasping  tone,  was  the  next  sound 
that  rang  through  the  house. 

“ Janet!”  again  —  before  a  slow  step  was  heard  on  the 
stairs,  and  a  distant  light  began  to  flicker  on  the  wall  of  the 
passage. 

“  Curse  you  !  you  creeping  idiot !  Come  faster,  can’t  you  ?  ” 

Yet  a  few  seconds,  and  the  figure  of  a  tall  woman,  holding 
aslant  a  heavy-plated  drawing-room  candlestick,  appeared  at 
the  turning  of  the  passage  that  led  to  the  broader  entrance. 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


261 


She  had  on  a  light  dress  which  sat  loosely  about  her  figure, 
but  did  not  disguise  its  liberal,  graceful  outline,  A  heavy 
mass  of  straight  jet-black  hair  had  escaped  from  its  fastening, 
and  hung  over  her  shoulders.  Her  grandly  cut  features,  pale 
with  the  natural  paleness  of  a  brunette,  had  premature  lines 
about  them,  telling  that  the  years  had  been  lengthened  by 
sorrow,  and  the  delicately  curved  nostril,  which  seemed  made 
to  quiver  with  the  proud  consciousness  of  power  and  beauty, 
must  have  quivered  to  the  heart-piercing  griefs  which  had 
given  that  worn  look  to  the  corners  of  the  mouth.  Her 
wide-open  black  eyes  had  a  strangely  fixed,  sightless  gaze, 
as  she  paused  at  the  turning,  and  stood  silent  before  her 
husband. 

“  I  ’ll  teach  you  to  keep  me  waiting  in  the  dark,  you  pale 
staring  fool !  ”  he  said,  advancing  with  his  slow  drunken  step, 
“  What,  you ’ve  been  drinking  again,  have  you  ?  I  ’ll  beat 
you  into  your  senses.” 

He  laid  his  hand  with  a  firm  gripe  on  her  shoulder,  turned 
her  round,  and  pushed  her  slowly  before  him  along  the  passage 
and  through  the  dining-room  door,  which  stood  open  on  their 
left  hand. 

There  was  a  portrait  of  Janet’s  mother,  a  gray-haired,  dark¬ 
eyed  old  woman,  in  a  neatly  fluted  cap,  hanging  over  the 
mantel-piece.  Surely  the  aged  eyes  take  on  a  look  of  anguish 
as  they  see  Janet  —  not  trembling,  no  !  it  would  be  better  if 
she  trembled  —  standing  stupidly  unmoved  in  her  great  beauty, 
while  the  heavy  arm  is  lifted  to  strike  her.  The  blow  falls  — 
another  —  and  another.  Surely  the  mother  hears  that  cry — . 
“Oh,  Robert !  pity  !  pity  !  ” 

Poor  gray-haired  woman  !  Was  it  for  this  you  suffered  a 
mother’s  pangs  in  your  lone  widowhood  five-and-thirty  years 
ago  ?  Was  it  for  this  you  kept  the  little  worn  morocco  shoes 
Janet  had  first  run  in,  and  kissed  them  day  by  day  when  she 
was  away  from  you,  a  tall  girl  at  school  ?  Was  it  for  this  you 
looked  proudly  at  her  when  she  came  back  to  you  in  her  rich 
pale  beauty,  like  a  tall  white  arum  that  has  just  unfolded  its 
grand  pure  curves  to  the  sun  ? 

The  mother  lies  sleepless  and  praying  in  her  lonely  house, 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


262 

weeping  the  difficult  tears  of  age,  because  she  dreads  this  may 
be  a  cruel  night  for  her  child. 

She  too  has  a  picture  over  her  mantel-piece,  drawn  in  chalk 
by  Janet  long  years  ago.  She  looked  at  it  before  she  went  to 
bed.  It  is  a  head  bowed  beneath  a  cross,  and  wearing  a  crown 

of  thorns. 


♦ 


CHAPTER  Y. 

It  was  half-past  nine  o’clock  in  the  morning.  The  nx'A 
summer  sun  was  already  warm  on  the  roofs  and  weathercock? 
of  Milby.  The  church-bells  were  ringing,  and  many  families 
were  conscious  of  Sunday  sensations,  chiefly  referable  to  the 
fact  that  the  daughters  had  come  down  to  breakfast  in  their 
best  frocks,  and  with  their  hair  particularly  well  dressed.  For 
it  was  not  Sunday,  but  Wednesday ;  and  though  the  Bishop 
was  going  to  hold  a  Confirmation,  and  to  "decide  whether  or 
not  there  should  be  a  Sunday  evening  lecture  in  Milby,  the 
sunbeams  had  the  usual  working-day  look  to  the  haymakers 
already  long  out  in  the  fields,  and  to  laggard  weavers  just 
“  setting  up  ”  their  week’s  u  piece.”  The  notion  of  its  being 
Sunday  was  the  strongest  in  young  ladies  like  Miss  Phipps, 
who  was  going  to  accompany  her  younger  sister  to  the  confir¬ 
mation,  and  to  wear  a  “  sweetly  pretty  ”  transparent  bonnet 
with  marabout  feathers  on  the  interesting  occasion,  thus 
fhrowing  into  relief  the  suitable  simplicity  of  her  sister’s  attire, 
dio  was,  of  course,  to  appear  in  a  new  wrhite  frock ;  or  in  the 
pupils  at  Miss  Townley’s,  who  were  absolved  from  all  lessons, 
and  were  going  to  church  to  see  the  Bishop,  and  to  hear  the 
Honorable  and  Reverend  Mr.  Prendergast,  the  rector,  read 
prayers  —  a  high  intellectual  treat,  as  Miss  Townley  assured 
them.  It  seemed  only  natural  that  a  rector,  who  was  honor¬ 
able,  should  read  better  than  old  Mr.  Crewe,  who  was  only  a 
curate,  and  not  honorable ;  and  when  little  Clara  Robins  won 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


263 


dered  why  some  clergymen  were  rectors  and  others  not,  Ellen 
Marriott  assured  her  with  great  confidence  that  it  was  only 
the  clever  men  who  were  made  rectors.  Ellen  Marriott  was 
going  to  be  confirmed.  She  was  a  short,  fair,  plump  girl,  with 
blue  eyes  and  sandy  hair,  which  was  this  morning  arranged  in 
taller  cannon  curls  than  usual,  for  the  reception  of  the  Episco¬ 
pal  benediction,  and  some  of  the  young  la, dies  thought  her  the 
prettiest  girl  in  the  school ;  but  others  gave  the  preference  to  her 
rival,  Maria  Gardner,  who  was  much  taller,  and  had  a  lovely 
"crop”  of  dark-brown  ringlets,  and  who,  being  also  about  to 
take  upon  herself  the  vows  made  in  her  name  at  her  baptism, 
had  oiled  and  twisted  her  ringlets  with  especial  care.  As  she 
seated  herself  at  the  breakfast-table  before  Miss  Townley’s 
entrance  to  dispense  the  weak  coffee,  her  crop  excited  so 
strong  a  sensation  that  Ellen  Marriott  was  at  length  impelled 
to  look  at  it,  and  to  say  with  suppressed  but  bitter  sarcasm, 
Is  that  Miss  Gardner’s  head  ?  ”  “  Yes,”  said  Maria,  amiable 

and  stuttering,  and  no  match  for  Ellen  in  retort ;  “  th —  th — 
this  is  my  head.”  “Then  I  don’t  admire  it  at  all!”  was  the 
crushing  rejoinder  of  Ellen,  followed  by  a  murmur  of  approval 
among  her  friends.  Young  ladies,  I  suppose,  exhaust  their 
sac  of  venom  in  this  way  at  school.  That  is  the  reason  why 
they  have  such  a  harmless  tooth  for  each  other  in  after  life. 

The  only  other  candidate  for  confirmation  at  Miss  Townley’s 
was  Mary  Dunn,  a  draper’s  daughter  in  Milby  and  a  distant 
relation  of  the  Miss  Linnets.  Her  pale  lanky  hair  could  never 
be  coaxed  into  permanent  curl,  and  this  morning  the  heat  had 
brought  it  down  to  its  natural  condition  of  lankiness  earlier 
than  usual.  But  that  was  not  what  made  her  sit  melancholy 
and  apart  at  the  lower  end  of  the  form.  Her  parents  were 
admirers  of  Mr.  Tryan,  and  had  been  persuaded,  by  the  Miss 
Linnets’  influence,  to  insist  that  their  daughter  should  be  pre¬ 
pared  for  confirmation  by  him,  over  and  above  the  preparation 
given  to  Miss  Townley’s  pupils  by  Mr.  Crewe.  Poor  Mary 
Dunn  !  I  am  afraid  she  thought  it  too  heavy  a  price  to  pay 
for  these  spiritual  advantages,  to  be  excluded  from  every  game 
at  ball,  co  be  obliged  to  walk  with  none  but  little  girls  —  in 
fact,  to  be  the  object  of  an  aversion  that  nothing  short  of  an 


264 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

incessant  supply  of  plumcakes  would  have  neutralized.  And 
Mis.  Dunn  was  of  opinion  that  plumcake  was  unwholesome, 
Ihe  anti-1  ryanite  spirit,  you  perceive,  was  very  strong  at  Miss 
Townley  s,  imported  probably  by  day  scholars,  as  well  as  en- 
eouiaged  oy  the  fact  that  that  clever  woman  was  herself 
strongly  opposed  to  innovation,  and  remarked  every  Sunday 
that  Mr.  Crewe  had  preached  an  u  excellent  discourse.”  Poor 
Maxy  Dunn  dieaded  the  moment  when  school-hours  would  be 
over,  for  then  she  was  sure  to  be  the  butt  of  those  very  ex¬ 
plicit  remarks  which,  in  young  ladies’  as  well  as  young  gentle¬ 
men’s  seminaries,  constitute  the  most  subtle  and  delicate  form 
of  the  innuendo.  “  I ’d  never  be  a  Tryanite,  would  you  ?  ” 

Oh,  heie  comes  the  lady  that  knows  so  much  more  about 

religion  than  we  do !  ”  “  Some  people  think  themselves  so 

very  pious  !  ” 

It  is  really  surprising  that  young  ladies  should  not  be 
thought  competent  to  the  same  curriculum  as  young  gentle¬ 
men.  I  obseive  that  their  powers  of  sarcasm  are  quite  equal; 
and  if  there  had  been  a  genteel  academy  for  young  gentlemen 
at  Milby,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that,  notwithstanding  Euclid 
and  the  classics,  the  party  spirit  there  would  not  have  exhib¬ 
ited  itself  in  more  pungent  irony,  or  more  incisive  satire,  than 
was  heard  in  Miss  Townley’s  seminary.  But  there  was  no 
such  academy,  the  existence  of  the  grammar-school  under  Mr. 
Crewe  s  superintendence  probably  discouraging  speculations 
of  that  kind ;  and  the  genteel  youths  of  Milby  were  chiefly 
come  home  for  the  midsummer  holidays  from  distant  schools, 
severed  of  us  had  just  assumed  coat-tails,  and  the  assumption 
of  new  responsibilities  apparently  following  as  a  matter  of 
course,  we  were  among  the  candidates  for  confirmation.  I 
wish  I  could  say  that  the  solemnity  of  our  feelings  was  on 
a  level  with  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion ;  but  unimaginative 
boys  find  it  difficult  to  recognize  apostolical  institutions  in 
their  developed  form,  and  I  fear  our  chief  emotion  concerning 
the  ceremony  was  a  sense  of  sheepishness,  and  our  chief  opin- 
<on,  the  speculative  and  heretical  position,  that  it  ought  to 
be  confined  to  the  girls.  It  was  a  pity,  you  will  say ;  but  it 
is  the  way  with  us  men  in  other  crises,  that  come  a  long  while 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


205 


after  confirmation.  The  golden  moments  in  the  stream  of  life 
rush  past  us,  and  we  see  nothing  but  sand ;  the  angels  come 
to  visit  us,  and  we  only  know  them  when  they  are  gone. 

But,  as  I  said,  the  morning  was  sunny,  the  bells  were 
ringing,  the  ladies  of  Milby  were  dressed  in  their  Sunday 
garments. 

And  who  is  this  bright-looking  woman  walking  with  hasty 
step  along  Orchard  Street  so  early,  with  a  large  nosegay  in 
her  hand  ?  Can  it  be  Janet  Dempster,  on  whom  we  looked 
with  such  deep  pity,  one  sad  midnight,  hardly  a  fortnight  ago  ? 
Yes ;  no  other  woman  in  Milby  has  those  searching  black  eyes, 
that  tall  graceful  unconstrained  figure,  set  off  by  her  simple 
muslin  dress  and  black  lace  shawl,  that  massy  black  hair  now 
so  neatly  braided  in  glossy  contrast  with  the  white  satin 
ribbons  of  her  modest  cap  and  bonnet.  No  other  woman  has 
that  sweet  speaking  smile,  with  which  she  nods  to  Jonathan 
Lamb,  the  old  parish  clerk.  And,  ah  !  —  now  she  comes 
nearer  —  there  are  those  sad  lines  about  the  mouth  and  eyes 
on  which  that  sweet  smile  plays  like  sunbeams  on  the  storm- 
beaten  beauty  of  the  full  and  ripened  corn. 

She  is  turning  out  of  Orchard  Street,  and  making  her  way 
as  fast  as  she  can  to  her  mother’s  house,  a  pleasant  cottage 
facing  a  roadside  meadow,  from  which  the  hay  is  being  carried. 
Mrs.  Raynor  has  had  her  breakfast,  and  is  seated  in  her  arm¬ 
chair  reading,  when  Janet  opens  the  door,  saying,  in  her  most 
playful  voice  — 

“  Please,  mother,  I  ’m  come  to  show  myself  to  you  before  I 
go  to  the  Parsonage.  Have  I  put  on  my  pretty  cap  and  bonnet 
to  satisfy  you  ?  ” 

Mrs.  Raynor  looked  over  her  spectacles,  and  met  her  daugh¬ 
ter’s  glance  with  eyes  as  dark  and  loving  as  her  own.  She 
was  a  much  smaller  woman  than  Janet,  both  in  figure  and 
feature,  the  chief  resemblance  lying  in  the  eyes  and  the  clear 
brunette  complexion.  The  mother’s  hair  had  long  been  gray, 
and  was  gathered  under  the  neatest  of  caps,  made  by  her  own 
clever  fingers,  as  all  Janet’s  caps  and  bonnets  were  too.  They 
were  well-practised  fingers,  for  Mrs.  Raynor  had  supported 
herself  in  her  widowhood  by  keeping  a  millinery  establish- 


266 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


ment,  and  in  this  way  had  earned  money  enough  to  give  her 
daughter  what  was  then  thought  a  first-rate  education,  as  well 
as  to  save  a  sum  which,  eked  out  by  her  son-in-law,  sufficed 
to  support  her  in  her  solitary  old  age.  Always  the  same  clean, 
neat  old  lady,  dressed  in  black  silk,  was  Mrs.  Raynor:  a 
patient,  brave  woman,  who  bowed  with  resignation  under  the 
burden  of  remembered  sorrow,  and  bore  with  meek  fortitude 
the  new  load  that  the  new  days  brought  with  them. 

“  Your  bonnet  wants  pulling  a  trifle  forwarder,  my  child,” 
she  said,  smiling,  and  taking  off  her  spectacles,  while  Janet  at 
once  knelt  down  before  her,  and  waited  to  be  “  set  to  rights,” 
as  she  would  have  done  when  she  was  a  child.  “  You  ’re  going 
straight  to  Mrs.  Crewe’s,  I  suppose  ?  Are  those  flowers  to 
garnish  the  dishes  ?  ” 

“No,  indeed,  mother.  This  is  a  nosegay  for  the  middle 
of  the  table.  I ’ve  sent  up  the  dinner-service  and  the  ham 
we  had  cooked  at  our  house  yesterday,  and  Betty  is  coming 
directly  with  the  garnish  and  the  plate.  We  shall  get  our  good 
Mrs.  Crewe  through  her  troubles  famously.  Dear  tiny  woman ! 
You  should  have  seen  her  lift  up  her  hands  yesterday,  and 
pray  heaven  to  take  her  before  ever  she  should  have  another 
collation  to  get  ready  for  the  Bishop.  She  said,  4  It’s  bad 
enough  to  have  the  Archdeacon,  though  he  does  n’t  want  half 
so  many  jelly-glasses.  I  would  n't  mind,  Janet,  if  it  was  to 
feed  all  the  old  hungry  cripples  in  Milby ;  but  so  much  trouble 
and  expense  for  people  who  eat  too  much  every  day  of  theii 
lives!’  We  had  such  a  cleaning  and  furbishing-up  of  the 
sitting-room  yesterday  !  Nothing  will  ever  do  away  with  the 
smell  of  Mr.  Crewe’s  pipes,  you  know ;  but  we  have  thrown  it 
into  the  background,  with  yellow  soap  and  dry  lavender.  And 
now  I  must  run  away.  You  will  come  to  church,  mother  ?  ” 

“Yes,  my  dear,  I  wouldn’t  lose  such  a  pretty  sight.  It 
does  my  old  eyes  good  to  see  so  many ’fresh  young  faces.  Is 
your  husband  going  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  Robert  will  be  there.  I ’ve  made  him  as  neat  as  a  new 
pin  this  morning,  and  he  says  the  Bishop  will  think  him  too 
buckish  by  half.  I  took  him  into  Mammy  Dempster’s  room  to 
show  himself.  We  hear  Tryan  is  making  sure  of  the  Bishop’s 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


267 


support ;  but  we  shall  see.  I  would  give  my  crooked  guinea, 
and  all  the  luck  it  will  ever  bring  me,  to  have  him  beaten,  for 
I  can’t  endure  the  sight  of  the  man  coming  to  harass  dear  old 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crewe  in  their  last  days.  Preaching  the  Gospel 
indeed  !  That  is  the  best  Gospel  that  makes  everybody  happy 
and  comfortable,  is  n’t  it,  mother  ?  ” 

“  Ah,  child,  I  'in  afraid  there ’s  no  Gospel  will  do  that  here 
below.” 

“  Well,  I  can  do  something  to  comfort  Mrs.  Crewe,  at  least ; 
so  give  me  a  kiss,  and  good-by  till  church-time.” 

The  mother  leaned  back  in  her  chair  when  Janet  was  gone, 
and  sank  into  a  painful  reverie.  When  our  life  is  a  continuous 
trial,  the  moments  of  respite  seem  only  to  substitute  the  heavi¬ 
ness  of  dread  for  the  heaviness  of  actual  suffering:  the  curtain 
of  cloud  seems  parted  an  instant  only  that  we  may  measure  all 
its  horror  as  it  hangs  low,  black,  and  imminent,  in  contrast 
with  the  transient  brightness  ;  the  water-drops  that  visit  the 
parched  lips  in  the  desert  bear  with  them  only  the  keen  imagi¬ 
nation  of  thirst.  Janet  looked  glad  and  tender  now  —  but  what 
scene  of  misery  was  coming  next  ?  She  was  too  like  the  cistus 
flowers  in  the  little  garden  before  the  window,  that,  with  the 
shades  of  evening,  might  lie  with  the  delicate  white  and  glossy 
dark  of  their  petals  trampled  in  the  roadside  dust.  When  the 
sun  had  sunk,  and  the  twilight  was  deepening,  Janet  might  be 
sitting  there,  heated,  maddened,  sobbing  out  her  griefs  with 
selfish  passion,  and  wildly  wishing  herself  dead. 

Mrs.  Raynor  had  been  reading  about  the  lost  sheep,  and  the 
joy  there  is  in  heaven  over  the  sinner  that  repenteth.  Surely 
the  eternal  love  she  believed  in  through  all  the  sadness  of  her 
lot,  would  not  leave  her  child  to  wander  farther  and  farther 
into  the  wilderness  till  there  was  no  turning  —  the  child  so 
lovely,  so  pitiful  to  others,  so  good  —  till  she  was  goaded  into 
sin  by  woman’s  bitterest  sorrows  !  Mrs.  Raynor  had  her  faith 
and  her  spiritual  comforts,  though  she  was  not  in  the  least 
evangelical,  and  knew  nothing  of  doctrinal  zeal.  I  fear  most 
of  Mr.  Tryan’s  hearers  would  have  considered  her  destitute  of 
saving  knowledge,  and  I  am  quite  sure  she  had  no  well-defined 
views  on  justification.  Nevertheless,  she  read  her  Bible  a 


268 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


great  deal,  and  thought  she  found  divine  lessons  there  —  how 
to  bear  the  cross  meekly,  and  be  merciful.  Let  us  hope  that 
there  is  a  saving  ignorance,  and  that  Mrs.  Raynor  was  justi¬ 
fied  without  knowing  exactly  how. 

She  tried  to  have  hope  and  trust,  though  it  was  hard  to 
believe  that  the  future  would  be  anything  else  than  the  har¬ 
vest  of  the  seed  that  was  being  sown  before  her  eyes.  But 
always  there  is  seed  being  sown  silently  and  unseen,  and 
everywhere  there  come  sweet  flowers  without  our  foresight  or 
labor.  We  reap  what  we  sow,  but  Nature  has  love  over  and 
above  that  justice,  and  gives  us  shadow  and  blossom  and  fruit 
that  spring  from  no  planting  of  ours. 


CHAPTER  VL 

Most  people  must  have  agreed  with  Mrs.  Raynor  that  the 
Confirmation  that  day  was  a  pretty  sight,  at  least  when  those 
slight  girlish  forms  and  fair  young  faces  moved  in  a  white 
rivulet  along  the  aisles,  and  flowed  into  kneeling  semicircles 
under  the  light  of  the  great  chancel  window,  softened  by 
patches  of  dark  old  painted  glass ;  and  one  would  think  that 
to  look  on  while  a  pair  of  venerable  hands  pressed  such  young 
heads,  and  a  venerable  face  looked  upward  for  a  blessing  on 
them,  would  be  very  likely  to  make  the  heart  swell  gently, 
and  to  moisten  the  eyes.  Yet  I  remember  the  eyes  seemed 
very  dry  in  Mil  by  Church  that  day,  notwithstanding  that  the 
Bishop  was  an  old  man,  and  probably  venerable  (for  though 
he  was  not  an  eminent  Grecian,  he  was  the  brother  of  a  WThig 
lord)  ;  and  I  think  the  eyes  must  have  remained  dry,  because 
he  had  small  delicate  womanish  hands  adorned  with  ruffles, 
and,  instead  of  laying  them  on  the  girls’  heads,  just  let  them 
hover  over  each  in  quick  succession,  as  if  it  were  not  etiquette 
to  touch  them,  and  as  if  the  laying  on  of  hands  were  like  the 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


209 


theatrical  embrace  —  part  of  the  play,  and  not  to  be  really 
believed  in.  To  be  sure,  there  were  a  great  many  heads,  and 
the  Bishop’s  time  was  limited.  Moreover,  a  wig  can,  under  no 
circumstances,  be  affecting,  except  in  rare  cases  of  illusion ; 
and  copious  lawn-sleeves  cannot  be  expected  to  go  directly 
to  any  heart  except  a  washerwoman’s. 

I  know,  Ned  Phipps,  who  knelt  against  me,  and  I  am  sure 
made  me  behave  much  worse  than  I  should  have  done  with¬ 
out  him,  whispered  that  he  thought  the  Bishop  was  a  “  guy,” 
and  I  certainly  remember  thinking  that  Mr.  Prendergast  looked 
much  more  dignified  with  his  plain  white  surplice  and  black 
hair.  He  was  a  tall  commanding  man,  and  read  the  Liturgy 
in  a  strikingly  sonorous  and  uniform  voice,  which  I  tried  to 
imitate  the  next  Sunday  at  home,  until  my  little  sister  began 
to  cry,  and  said  I  was  “  y oaring  at  her.” 

Mr.  Tryan  sat  in  a  pew  near  the  pulpit  with  several  othei 
clergymen.  He  looked  pale,  and  rubbed  his  hand  over  his 
face  and  pushed  back  his  hair  oftener  than  usual.  Standing 
in  the  aisle  close  to  him,  and  repeating  the  responses  with 
edifying  loudness,  was  Mr.  Budd,  churchwarden  and  delegate, 
with  a  white  staff  in  his  hand  and  a  backward  bend  of  his 
small  head  and  person,  such  as,  I  suppose,  he  considered 
suitable  to  a  friend  of  sound  religion.  Conspicuous  in  the 
gallery,  too,  was  the  tall  figure  of  Mr.  Dempster,  whose  pro¬ 
fessional  avocations  rarely  allowed  him  to  occupy  his  place  at 
church. 

“ There’s  Dempster,”  said  Mrs.  Linnet  to  her  daughter 
Mary,  “  looking  more  respectable  than  usual,  I  declare.  He ’s 
got  a  fine  speech  by  heart  to  make  to  the  Bishop,  I’ll  answer 
for  it.  But  he  ’ll  be  pretty  well  sprinkled  with  snuff  before 
service  is  over,  and  the  Bishop  won’t  be  able  to  listen  to  him 
for  sneezing,  that ’s  one  comfort.” 

At  length  the  last  stage  in  the  long  ceremony  was  over,  the 
large  assembly  streamed  warm  and  weary  into  the  open  after¬ 
noon  sunshine,  and  the  Bishop  retired  to  the  Parsonage,  where, 
after  honoring  Mrs.  Crewe’s  collation,  he  was  to  give  audience 
to  the  delegates  and  Mr.  Tryan  on  the  great  question  of  the 
evening  lecture. 


270 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


Between  five  and  six  o’clock  the  Parsonage  was  once  more 
as  quiet  as  usual  under  the  shadow  of  its  tall  elms,  and  the 
only  traces  of  the  Bishop’s  recent  presence  there  were  the 
wheel-marks  on  the  gravel,  and  the  long  table  with  its  gar¬ 
nished  dishes  awry,  its  damask  sprinkled  with  crumbs,  and  its 
decanters  without  their  stoppers.  Mr.  Crewe  was  already 
calmly  smoking  his  pipe  in  the  opposite  sitting-room,  and 
Janet  was  agreeing  with  Mrs.  Crewe  that  some  of  the  blanc¬ 
mange  would  be  a  nice  thing  to  take  to  Sally  Martin,  while 
the  little  old  lady  herself  had  a  spoon  in  her  hand  ready  to 
gather  the  crumbs  into  a  plate,  that  she  might  scatter  them 
on  the  gravel  for  the  little  birds. 

Before  that  time,  the  Bishop’s  carriage,  had  been  seen  driving 
through  the  High  Street  on  its  way  to  Lord  Trufford’s,  where  he 
was  to  dine.  The  question  of  the  lecture  was  decided,  then  ? 

The  nature  of  the  decision  may  be  gathered  from  the  follow¬ 
ing  conversation  which  took  place  in  the  bar  of  the  Red  Lion 
that  evening. 

“  So  you  ’re  done,  eh,  Dempster  ?  ”  was  Mr.  Pilgrim’s  obser¬ 
vation,  uttered  with  some  gusto.  He  was  not  glad  Mr.  Tryan 
had  gained  his  point,  but  he  was  not  sorry  Dempster  was 
disappointed. 

“  Done,  sir  ?  Not  at  all.  It  is  what  I  anticipated.  I  knew 
we  had  nothing  else  to  expect  in  these  days,  when  the  Church 
is  infested  by  a  set  of  men  who  are  only  fit  to  give  out  hymns 
from  an  empty  cask,  to  tunes  set  by  a  journeyman  cobbler. 
But  I  was  not  the  less  to  exert  myself  in  the  cause  of  sound 
Churchmanship  for  the  good  of  the  town.  Any  coward  can 
fight  a  battle  when  he ’s  sure  of  winning ;  but  give  me  the 
man  wrho  has  pluck  to  fight  when  he ’s  sure  of  losing.  That ’s 
my  way,  sir ;  and  there  are  many  victories  worse  than  a 
defeat,  as  Mr.  Tryan  shall  learn  to  his  cost.” 

“  He  must  be  a  poor  sliuperannyated  sort  of  a  bishop,  that ’s 
my  opinion,”  said  Mr.  Tomlinson,  “  to  go  along  with  a  sneak¬ 
ing  Methodist  like  Tryan.  And,  for  my  part,  I  think  we 
should  be  as  well  wi’out  bishops,  if  they  ’re  no  wiser  than  that. 
Where’s  the  use  o’  havin’  thousands  a-}mar  an’  livin’  in  a 
pallis,  if  they  don’t  stick  to  the  Church  ?  ” 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


271 


■“No.  There  you’re  going  out  of  your  depth,  Tomlinson,” 
said  Mr.  Dempster.  “No  one  shall  hear  me  say  a  word 
against  Episcopacy  —  it  is  a  safeguard  of  the  Church;  we 
must  have  ranks  and  dignities  there  as  well  as  everywhere 
else.  No,  sir !  Episcopacy  is  a  good  thing ;  but  it  may  hap¬ 
pen  that  a  bishop  is  not  a  good  thing.  Just  as  brandy  is 
a  good  thing,  though  this  particular  brandy  is  British,  and 
tastes  like  sugared  rain-water  caught  down  the  chimney. 
Here,  Ratcliffe,  let  me  have  something  to  drink,  a  little  less 
like  a  decoction  of  sugar  and  soot.” 

“  I  said  nothing  again’  Episcopacy,”  returned  Mr.  TomlAm 
son.  “  I  only  said  I  thought  we  should  do  as  well  wi’out 
bishops ;  an’  I  ’ll  say  it  again  for  the  matter  o’  that.  Bishops 
never  brought  any  grist  to  my  mill.” 

“  Do  you  know  when  the  lectures  are  to  begin  ?  ”  said  Mr. 
Pilgrim. 

“  They  are  to  begin  on  Sunday  next,”  said  Mr.  Dempster,  in 
a  significant  tone ;  “  but  I  think  it  will  not  take  a  long-sighted 
prophet  to  foresee  the  end  of  them.  It  strikes  me  Mr.  Tryan 
will  be  looking  out  for  another  curacy  shortly.” 

“  He  ’ll  not  get  many  Milby  people  to  go  and  hear  his  lec¬ 
tures  after  a  while,  I  ’ll  bet  a  guinea,”  observed  Mr.  Budd.  “  I 
know  I’ll  not  keep  a  single  workman  on  my  ground  who 
either  goes  to  the  lecture  himself  or  lets  anybody  belonging  to 
him  go.” 

“Nor  me  nayther,”  said  Mr.  Tomlinson.  “No  Tryanite  shall 
touch  a  sack  or  drive  a  wagon  o’  mine,  that  you  may  depend 
on.  An’  I  know  more  besides  me  as  are  o’  the  same  mind.” 

“  Tryan  has  a  good  many  friends  in  the  town,  though,  and 
friends  that  are  likely  to  stand  by  him  too,”  said  Mr.  Pilgrim. 
“  I  should  say  it  would  be  as  well  to  let  him  and  his  lectures 
alone.  If  he  goes  on  preaching  as  he  does,  with  such  a  con¬ 
stitution  as  his,  he’ll  get  a  relaxed  throat  by-and-by,  and 
you  ’ll  be  rid  of  him  without  any  trouble.” 

“We’ll  not  allow  him  to  do  himself  that  injury,”  said  Mr. 
Dempster.  “Since  his  health  is  not  good,  we  'll  persuade  him 
to  try  change  of  air.  Depend  upon  it,  he  11  find  the  climate 
of  Milby  too  hot  for  him.” 


272 


SCEJNEiS  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE, 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Mr.  Dempster  did  not  stay  long  at  the  Red  Lion  that 
evening.  He  was  summoned  home  to  meet  Mr.  Armstrong,  a 
wealthy  client,  and  as  he  was  kept  in  consultation  till  a  late 
hour,  it  happened  that  this  was  one  of  the  nights  on  which 
Mr.  Dempster  went  to  bed  tolerably  sober.  Thus  the  day, 
which  had  been  one  of  Janet’s  happiest,  because  it  had  been 
spent  by  her  in  helping  her  dear  old  friend  Mrs.  Crewe,  ended 
for  her  with  unusual  quietude  ;  and  as  a  bright  sunset  prom¬ 
ises  a  fair  morning,  so  a  calm  lying  down  is  a  good  augury  for 
a  calm  waking.  Mr.  Dempster,  on  the  Thursday  morning,  was 
in  one  of  his  best  humors,  and  though  perhaps  some  of  the 
good-humor  might  result  from  the  prospect  of  a  lucrative  and 
exciting  bit  of  business  in  Mr.  Armstrong’s  probable  lawsuit, 
the  greater  part  of  it  was  doubtless  due  to  those  stirrings  of 
the  more  kindly,  healthy  sap  of  human  feeling,  by  which 
goodness  tries  to  get  the  upper  hand  in  us  whenever  it  seems 
to  have  the  slightest  chance  —  on  Sunday  mornings,  perhaps, 
when  we  are  set  free  from  the  grinding  hurry  of  the  week, 
and  take  the  little  three-year-old  on  our  knee  at  breakfast  to 
share  our  egg  and  muffin  ;  in  moments  of  trouble,  when  death 
visits  our  roof  or  illness  makes  us  dependent  on  the  tending 
hand  of  a  slighted  wife  ;  in  quiet  talks  with  an  aged  mother, 
of  the  days  when  we  stood  at  her  knee  with  our  first  picture- 
book,  or  wrote  her  loving  letters  from  school.  In  the  man 
whose  childhood  has  known  caresses  there  is  always  a  fibre 
of  memory  that  can  be  touched  to  gentle  issues,  and  Mr. 
Dempster,  whom  you  have  hitherto  seen  only  as  the  orator 
of  the  Red  Lien,  and  the  drunken  tyrant  of  a  dreary  mid¬ 
night  home,  was  the  first-born  darling  son  of  a  fair  little 
mother.  That  mother  was  living  still,  and  her  own  large 
black  easy-chair,  where  she  sat  knitting  through  the  livelong 
day,  was  now  set  ready  for  her  at  the  breakfast-table,  by 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


273 


her  son’s  side,  a  sleek  tortoise-shell  cat  acting  as  provisional 
incumbent. 

“  Good  morning,  Mamsey  !  why,  you  ’re  looking  as  fresh  as 
a  daisy  this  morning.  You  ’re  getting  young  again,”  said  Mr. 
Dempster,  looking  up  from  his  newspaper  when  the  little  old 
lady  entered.  A  very  little  old  lady  she  was,  with  a  pale, 
scarcely  wrinkled  face,  hair  of  that  peculiar  white  which  tells 
that  the  locks  have  once  been  blond,  a  natty  pure  white  cap  on 
her  head,  and  a  white  shawl  pinned  over  her  shoulders.  You 
saw  at  a  glance  that  she  had  been  a  mignonne  blonde,  strangely 
unlike  her  tall,  ugly,  dingy-complexioned  son ;  unlike  her 
daughter-in-law,  too,  whose  large-featured  brunette  beauty 
seemed  always  thrown  into  higher  relief  by  the  white  pres¬ 
ence  of  little  Mamsey.  The  unlikeness  between  Janet  and 
her  mother-in-law  wrent  deeper  than  outline  and  complexion, 
and  indeed  there  was  little  sympathy  between  them,  for  old 
Mrs.  Dempster  had  not  yet  learned  to  believe  that  her  son, 
Robert,  would  have  gone  wrong  if  he  had  married  the  right 
woman  —  a  meek  woman  like  herself,  who  would  have  borne 
him  children,  and  been  a  deft,  orderly  housekeeper.  In  spite 
of  Janet’s  tenderness  and  attention  to  her,  she  had  had  little 
love  for  her  daughter-in-law  from  the  first,  and  had  witnessed 
the  sad  growth  of  home-misery  through  long  years,  alwayr 
with  a  disposition  to  lay  the  blame  on  the  wife  rather  than  o^ 
the  husband,  and  to  reproach  Mrs.  Raynor  for  encouraging  he? 
daughter’s  faults  by  a  too  exclusive  sympathy.  But  old  Mrs* 
Dempster  had  that  rare  gift  of  silence  and  passivity  which 
often  supplies  the  absence  of  mental  strength  ;  and,  whatever 
were  her  thoughts,  she  said  no  word  to  aggravate  the  domestic 
discord.  Patient  and  mute  she  sat  at  her  knitting  through 
many  a  scene  of  quarrel  and  anguish  ;  resolutely  she  appeared 
unconscious  of  the  sounds  that  reached  her  ears,  and  the  facts 
she  divined  after  she  had  retired  to  her  bed  ;  mutely  she 
witnessed  poor  Janet’s  faults,  only  registering  them  as  a 
balance  of  excuse  on  the  side  of  her  son.  The  hard,  astute, 
domineering  attorney  was  still  that  little  old  woman’s  pet,  as 
he  had  been  when  she  watched  with  triumphant  pride  his 
first  tumbling  effort  to  march  alone  across  the  nursery  floor. 

VOL.  IV.  18 


274 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


“  See  what  a  good  son  he  is  to  me  !  ”  she  often  thought. 
“  Never  gave  me  a  harsh  word.  And  so  he  might  have  been  a 
good  husband.” 

Oh,  it  is  piteous  —  that  sorrow  of  aged  women  !  In  early 
youth,  perhaps,  they  said  to  themselves,  “I  shall  be  happy 
when  I  have  a  husband  to  love  me  best  of  all ;  ”  then,  when 
the  husband  was  too  careless,  “  My  child  will  comfort  me ;  ” 
then,  through  the  mother’s  watching  and  toil,  “  My  child  will 
repay  me  all  when  it  grows  up.*’  And  at  last,  after  the  long 
journey  of  years  has  been  wearily  travelled  through,  the 
mother’s  heart  is  weighed  down  by  a  heavier  burthen,  and  no 
hope  remains  but  the  grave. 

But  this  morning  old  Mrs.  Dempster  sat  down  in  her  easy- 
chair  without  any  painful,  suppressed  remembrance  of  the 
preceding  night. 

“  I  declare  mammy  looks  younger  than  Mrs.  Crewe,  who  is 
only  sixty-five,”  said  Janet.  “Mrs.  Crewe  will  come  to  see 
you  to-day,  mammy,  and  tell  you  all  about  her  troubles  with 
the  Bishop  and  the  collation.  She  ’ll  bring  her  knitting,  and 
you  ’ll  have  a  regular  gossip  together.” 

“  The  gossip  will  be  all  on  one  side,  then,  for  Mrs.  Crewe 
gets  so  very  deaf,  I  can’t  make  her  hear  a  word.  And  if  I 
motion  to  her,  she  always  understands  me  wrong.” 

“  Oh,  she  will  have  so  much  to  tell  you  to-day,  you  will  not 
want  to  speak  yourself.  You  who  have  patience  to  knit  those 
wonderful  counterpanes,  mammy,  must  not  be  impatient  with 
dear  Mrs.  Crewe.  Good  old  lady  !  I  can’t  bear  her  to  think 
she ’s  ever  tiresome  to  people,  and  you  know  she ’s  very  ready 
to  fancy  herself  in  the  way.  I  think  she  would  like  to  shrink 
up  to  the  size  of  a  mouse,  that  she  might  run  about  and  do 
people  good  without  their  noticing  her.” 

“  It  is  n’t  patience  I  want,  God  knows ;  it ’s  lungs  to  speak 
loud  enough.  But  you  ’ll  be  at  home  yourself,  I  suppose,  this 
morning ;  and  you  can  talk  to  her  fo:?  me.” 

“No,  mammy;  I  promised  poor  Mrs.  Lowme  to  go  and  sit 
with  her.  She ’s  confined  to  her  room,  and  both  the  Miss 
Lowmes  are  out ;  so  I’m  going  to  read  the  newspaper  to  her 
and  amuse  her.” 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


275 


“  Could  n’t  you  go  another  morning?  As  Mr.  Armstrong 
and  that  other  gentleman  are  coming  to  dinner,  I  should  think 
it  would  be  better  to  stay  at  home.  Can  you  trust  Betty  to 
see  to  everything  ?  She ’s  new  to  the  place.” 

“  Oh,  I  could  n’t  disappoint  Mrs.  Lowme ;  I  promised  her. 
Betty  will  do  very  well,  no  fear.” 

Old  Mrs.  Dempster  was  silent  after  this,  and  began  to  sip 
her  tea.  The  breakfast  went  on  without  further  conversation 
for  some  time,  Mr.  Dempster  being  absorbed  in  the  papers. 
At  length,  when  he  was  running  over  the  advertisements,  his 
eye  seemed  to  be  caught  by  something  that  suggested  a  new 
thought  to  him.  He  presently  thumped  the  table  with  an  air 
of  exultation,  and  said,  turning  to  Janet  — 

“  I  Ve  a  capital  idea,  Gypsy !  ”  (that  was  his  name  for 
his  dark  eyed  wife  when  he  was  in  an  extraordinarily  good 
humor),  “  and  you  shall  help  me.  It ’s  just  what  you  ’re 
up  to.” 

“  What  is  it  ?  ”  said  Janet,  her  face  beaming  at  the  sound 
of  the  pet  name,  now  heard  so  seldom.  “  Anything  to  do  with 
conveyancing  ?  ” 

“  It ’s  a  bit  of  fun  worth  a  dozen  fees  —  a  plan  for  raising  a 
laugh  against  Tryan  and  his  gang  of  hypocrites.” 

“  What  is  it  ?  Nothing  that  wants  a  needle  and  thread,  I 
hope,  else  I  must  go  and  tease  mother.” 

“No,  nothing  sharper  than  your  wit  —  except  mine.  I’ll 
tell  you  what  it  is.  We’ll  get  up  a  programme  of  the  Sun' 
day  evening  lecture,  like  a  play-bill,  you  know  —  ‘  Grand  Per¬ 
formance  of  the  celebrated  Mountebank,’  and  so  on.  We’ll 
bring  in  the  Try  unites  —  old  Landor  and  the  rest  —  in  appropri¬ 
ate  characters.  Proctor  shall  print  it,  and  we  ’ll  circulate  it  in 
the  town.  It  will  be  a  capital  hit.” 

“Bravo!”  said  Janet,  clapping  her  hands.  She  would  just 
then  have  pretended  to  like  almost  anything,  in  her  pleasure 
at  being  appealed  to  by  her  husband,  and  she  really  did  like 
to  laugh  at  the  Tryanites.  “We’ll  set  about  it  directly,  and 
sketch  it  out  before  you  go  to  the  office.  I ’ve  got  Tryan’s 
sermons  up-stairs,  but  I  don’t  think  there ’s  anything  in  them 
we  can  use.  I ’ve  only  just  looked  into  them  ;  they  ’re  not  at 


276 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


all  what  I  expected  —  dull,  stupid  things  —  nothing  of  the 
roaring  fire-and-brimstone  sort  that  I  expected.” 

“Roaring?  No;  Tryan’sas  soft  as  a  sucking  dove  —  one 
of  your  honey-mouthed  hypocrites.  Plenty  of  devil  and  malice 
in  him,  though,  I  could  see  that,  while  he  was  talking  to  the 
Bishop ;  but  as  smooth  as  a  snake  outside.  He ’s  beginning  a 
single-handed  fight  with  me,  I  can  see  —  persuading  my  clients 
away  from  me.  We  shall  see  who  will  be  the  first  to  cry  pec- 
cavi.  Milby  will  do  better  without  Mr.  Tryan  than  without 
Robert  Dempster,  I  fancy !  and  Milby  shall  never  be  flooded 
with  cant  as  long  as  I  can  raise  a  breakwater  against  it.  But 
now,  get  the  breakfast  things  cleared  away,  and  let  us  set 
about  the  play-bill.  Come,  Mamsey,  come  and  have  a  walk 
with  me  round  the  garden,  and  let  us  see  how  the  cucumbers 
are  getting  on.  I ’ve  never  taken  you  round  the  garden  for  an 
age.  Come,  you  don’t  want  a  bonnet.  It ’s  like  walking  in  a 
greenhouse  this  morning.” 

“  But  she  will  want  a  parasol,”  said  Janet.  “  There ’s  one 
on  the  stand  against  the  garden-door,  Robert.” 

The  little  old  lady  took  her  son’s  arm  with  placid  pleasure. 
She  could  barely  reach  it  so  as  to  rest  upon  it,  but  he  inclined 
a  little  towards  her,  and  accommodated  his  heavy  long-limbed 
steps  to  her  feeble  pace.  The  cat  chose  to  sun  herself  too, 
and  walked  close  beside  them,  with  tail  erect,  rubbing  her  sleek 
sides  against  their  legs,  —  too  well  fed  to  be  excited  by  the 
twittering  birds.  The  garden  was  of  the  grassy,  shady  kind, 
often  seen  attached  to  old  houses  in  provincial  towns ;  the 
apple-trees  had  had  time  to  spread  their  branches  very  wide, 
the  shrubs  and  hardy  perennial  plants  had  grown  into  a  luxuri¬ 
ance  that  required  constant  trimming  to  prevent  them  from 
intruding  on  the  space  for  walking.  But  the  farther  end, 
which  united  with  green  fields,  was  open  and  sunny. 

It  was  rather  sad,  and  yet  pretty,  to  see  that  little  group 
passing  out  of  the  shadow  into  the  sunshine,  and  out  of  the  sun¬ 
shine  into  the  shadow  again  :  sad,  because  this  tenderness  of 
the  son  for  the  mother  was  hardly  more  than  a  nucleus  of 
healthy  life  in  an  organ  hardening  by  disease,  because  the  man 
who  was  linked  in  this  way  with  an  innocent  past,  had  become 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


277 


callous  in  worldliness,  fevered  by  sensuality,  enslaved  by 
chance  impulses ;  pretty,  because  it  showed  how  hard  it  is  to 
kill  the  deep-down  fibrous  roots  of  human  love  and  goodness 
-—how  the  man  from  whom  we  make  it  our  pride  to  shrink, 
has  yet  a  close  brotherhood  with  us  through  some  of  our  most 
sacred  feelings. 

As  they  were  returning  to  the  house,  Janet  met  them,  and 
said,  "Now,  Robert,  the  writing  things  are  ready.  I  shall  be 
clerk,  and  Mat  Paine  can  copy  it  out  after.” 

Mammy  once  more  deposited  in  her  arm-chair,  with  her 
knitting  in  her  hand,  and  the  cat  purring  at  her  elbow,  Janet 
seated  herself  at  the  table,  while  Mr.  Dempster  placed  himself 
near  her,  took  out  his  snuff-box,  and  plentifully  suffusing  him 
self  with  the  inspiring  powder,  began  to  dictate. 

What  he  dictated,  we  shall  see  by-and-by. 


♦ 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

The  next  day,  Eriday,  at  five  o’clock  by  the  sun-dial,  the 
large  bow-window  of  Mrs.  Jerome’s  parlor  was  open ;  and  that 
lady  herself  was  seated  within  its  ample  semicircle,  having  a 
table  before  her  on  which  her  best  tea-tray,  her  best  china, 
and  her  best  urn-rug  had  already  been  standing  in  readiness 
for  half  an  hour.  Mrs.  Jerome’s  best  tea-service  was  of  deli¬ 
cate  white  fluted  china,  with  gold  sprigs  upon  it  —  as  pretty 
a  tea-service  as  you  need  wish  to  see,  and  quite  good  enough 
for  chimney  ornaments ;  indeed,  as  the  cups  were  without 
handles,  most  visitors  who  had  the  distinction  of  taking  tea 
out  of  them,  wished  that  such  charming  china  had  already  been 
promoted  to  that  honorary  position.  Mrs.  Jerome  was  like 
her  china,  handsome  and  old-fashioned.  She  was  a  buxom 
lady  of  sixty,  in  an  elaborate  lace  cap  fastened  by  a  frill 
under  her  chin,  a  dark,  well-curled  front  concealing  her  fore* 


278 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


head,  a  snowy  neckerchief  exhibiting  its  ample  folds  as  far  as 
her  waist,  and  a  stiff  gray  silk  gown.  She  had  a  clean  dam¬ 
ask  napkin  pinned  before  her  to  guard  her  dress  during  the 
process  of  tea-making ;  her  favorite  geraniums  in  the  bow- 
window  were  looking  as  healthy  as  she  could  desire ;  her 
own  handsome  portrait,  painted  when  she  was  twenty  years 
younger,  was  smiling  down  on  her  with  agreeable  flattery; 
and  altogether  she  seemed  to  be  in  as  peaceful  and  pleasant 
a  position  as  a  buxom,  well-drest  elderly  lady  need  desire. 
But,  as  in  so  many  other  cases,  appearances  were  deceptive. 
Her  mind  was  greatly  perturbed  and  her  temper  ruffled  by 
the  fact  that  it  was  more  than  a  quarter  past  five  even  by  the 
losing  timepiece,  that  it  was  half-past  by  her  large  gold  watch, 
which  she  held  in  her  hand  as  if  she  were  counting  the  pulse 
of  the  afternoon,  and  that,  by  the  kitchen  clock,  which  she 
felt  sure  was  not  an  hour  too  fast,  it  had  already  struck  six. 
The  lapse  of  time  was  rendered  the  more  unendurable  to  Mrs. 
Jerome  by  her  wonder  that  Mr.  Jerome  could  stay  out  in  the 
garden  with  Lizzie  in  that  thoughtless  way,  taking  it  so  easily 
that  tea-time  was  long  past,  and  that,  after  all  the  trouble  of 
getting  down  the  best  tea-things,  Mr.  Tryan  would  not  come. 

This  honor  had  been  shown  to  Mr.  Tryan,  not  at  all  because 
Mrs.  Jerome  had  any  highappreciation  of  his  doctrine  or  of 
hie  exemplary  activity  as  a  pastor,  but  simply  because  he  was 
a  “  Church  clergyman/’  and  as  such  was  regarded  by  her  with 
the  same  sort  of  exceptional  respect  that  a  white  woman  who 
had  married  a  native  of  the  Society  Islands  might  be  supposed 
to  feel  towards  a  white-skinned  visitor  from  the  land  of  her 
youth.  For  Mrs.  Jerome  had  been  reared  a  Churchwoman, 
and  having  attained  the  age  of  thirty  before  she  was  married, 
had  felt  the  greatest  repugnance  in  the  first  instance  to  re¬ 
nouncing  the  religious  forms  in  which  she  had  been  brought 
up.  “  You  know/’  she  said  in  confidence  to  her  Church  ac¬ 
quaintances,  u I  wouldn’t  give  no  ear  at  all  to  Mr.  Jerome  at 
fust ;  but  after  all,  I  begun  to  think  as  there  was  a  many  things 
worse  nor  goin’  to  chapel,  an’  you ’d  better  do  that  nor  not 
pay  your  way.  Mr.  Jerome  had  a  very  pleasant  manner  with 
him,  an’  there  was  niver  another  as  kept  a  gig,  an’  ’ud  make  a 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


279 


settlement  on  me  like  him,  chapel  or  no  chapel.  It  seemed 
very  odd  to  me  for  a  long  while,  the  preachin’  without  book, 
an’  the  stannin’  up  to  one  long  prayer,  istid  o’  changin’  your 
postur.  But  la !  there ’s  nothin’  as  you  may  n’t  get  used  to  i’ 
time  ;  you  can  al’ys  sit  down,  you  know,  before  the  prayer ’s 
done.  The  ministers  say  pretty  nigh  the  same  things  as  the 
Church  parsons,  by  what  I  could  iver  make  out,  an’  we  ’re  out 
o’  chapel  i’  the  mornin’  a  deal  sooner  nor  they’re  out  o’ 
church.  An’  as  for  pews,  ours  is  a  deal  comfortabler  nor  any 
i’  Milby  Church.” 

Mrs.  Jerome,  you  perceive,  had  not  a  keen  susceptibility  to 
shades  of  doctrine,  and  it  is  probable  that,  after  listening  to 
Dissenting  eloquence  for  thirty  years,  she  might  safely  have 
re-entered  the  Establishment  without  performing  any  .spiritual 
quarantine.  Her  mind,  apparently,  was  of  that  non-porous 
flinty  character  which  is  not  in  the  least  danger  from  sur¬ 
rounding  damp.  But  on  the  question  of  getting  start  of  the 
sun  on  the  day’s  business,  and  clearing  her  conscience  of  the 
necessary  sum  of  meals  and  the  consequent  “  washing  up  ”  as 
soon  as  possible,  so  that  the  family  might  be  well  in  bed  at 
nine,  Mrs.  Jerome  was  susceptible  ;  and  the  present  lingering 
pace  of  things,  united  with  Mr.  Jerome’s  unaccountable  obliv¬ 
iousness,  was  not  to  be  borne  any  longer.  So  she  rang  the 
bell  for  Sally. 

“  Goodness  me,  Sally !  go  into  the  garden  an’  see  after  your 
master.  Tell  him  it’s  goin’  on  for  six,  an’  Mr.  Tryan  ’ull 
niver  think  o’  cornin’  now,  an’  it ’s  time  we  got  tea  over.  An 
he ’s  lettin’  Lizzie  stain  her  frock,  I  expect,  among  them 
strawberry-beds.  Make  her  come  in  this  minute.” 

No  wonder  Mr.  Jerome  was  tempted  to  linger  in  the  garden, 
for  though  the  house  was  pretty  and  well  deserved  its  name 
—  u  the  White  House,”  the  tall  damask  roses  that  clustered 
over  the  porch  being  thrown  into  relief  by  rough  stucco  of  the 
most  brilliant  white,  yet  the  garden  and  orchards  were  Mr. 
Jerome’s  glory,  as  well  they  might  be  ;  and  there  was  nothing 
in  which  he  had  a  more  innocent  pride  —  peace  to  a  good 
man’s  memory  !  all  his  pride  was  innocent  —  than  in  conduct¬ 
ing  a  hitherto  uninitiated  visitor  otT  his  grounds,  and  making 


280 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


him  in  some  degree  aware  of  the  incomparable  advantages 
possessed  by  the  inhabitants  of  the  White  House  in  the  mat¬ 
ter  of  red-streaked  apples,  russets,  northern  greens  (excellent 
for  baking),  swan-egg  pears,  and  early  vegetables,  to  say  noth¬ 
ing  of  flowering  “srubs,”  pink  hawthorns,  lavender  bushes 
more  than  ever  Mrs.  Jerome  could  use,  and,  in  short,  a  super¬ 
abundance  of  everything  that  a  person  retired  from  business 
could  desire  to  possess  himself  or  to  share  with  his  friends. 
The  garden  was  one  of  those  old-fashioned  paradises  which 
hardly  exist  any  longer  except  as  memories  of  our  childhood : 
no  finical  separation  between  flower  and  kitchen  garden  there ; 
no  monotony  of  enjoyment  for  one  sense  to  the  exclusion  of 
another  ;  but  a  charming  paradisiacal  mingling  of  all  that  was 
pleasant  to  the  eyes  and  good  for  food.  The  rich  flower- 
border  running  along  every  walk,  with  its  endless  succession 
of  spring  flowers,  anemones,  auriculas,  wall-flowers,  sweet- 
williams,  campanulas,  snapdragons,  and  tiger-lilies,  had  its 
taller  beauties,  such  as  moss  and  Provence  roses,  varied  with 
espalier  apple-trees ;  the  crimson  of  a  carnation  was  carried 
out  in  the  lurking  crimson  of  the  neighboring  strawberry -beds ; 
you  gathered  a  moss-rose  one  moment  and  a  bunch  of  currants 
the  next;  you  were  in  a  delicious  fluctuation  between  the 
scent  of  jasmine  and  the  juice  of  gooseberries.  Then  what  a 
high  wall  at  one  end,  flanked  by  a  summer-house  so  lofty,  that 
after  ascending  its  long  flight  of  steps  you  could  see  perfectly 
well  there  was  no  view  worth  looking  at ;  what  alcoves  and 
garden-seats  in  all  directions ;  and  along  one  side,  what  a 
hedge,  tall,  and  firm,  and  unbroken,  like  a  green  wall ! 

It  was  near  this  hedge  that  Mr.  Jerome  was  standing  when 
Sally  found  him.  tie  had  set  down  the  basket  of  strawberries 
on  the  gravel,  and  had  lifted  up  little  Lizzie  in  his  arms  to 
look  at  a  bird’s  nest.  Lizzie  peeped,  and  then  looked  at  her 
grandpa  witn  round  blue  eyes,  and  then  peeped  again. 

“  I)  ’ye  see  it,  Lizzie  ?  ”  he  whispered. 

“Yes,”  she  whispered  in  return,  putting  her  lips  very  near 
grandpa’s  face.  At  this  moment  Sally  appeared. 

aEh,  eh,  Sally,  what’s  the  matter  ?  Is  Mr.  Tryan  come  ?  9 

i(  sir,  an’  Missis  says  she ’s  sure  he  won’t  come  now,  an’ 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


281 


she  wants  you  to  come  in  an’  hev  tea.  Dear  heart,  Miss 
Lizzie,  you ’ve  stained  your  pinafore,  an’  I  should  n’t  wonder 
if  it’s  gone  through  to  your  frock.  There’ll  be  fine  work! 
Come  alonk  wi’  me,  do.” 

“  Nay,  nay,  nay,  we ’ve  done  no  harm,  we ’ve  done  no  harm, 
hev  we,  Lizzie  ?  The  wash-tub  ’ull  make  all  right  again.” 

Sally,  regarding  the  wash-tub  from  a  different  point  of  view, 
looked  sourly  serious,  and  hurried  away  with  Lizzie,  who 
trotted  submissively  along,  her  little  head  in  eclipse  under  a 
large  nankin  bonnet,  while  Mr.  Jerome  followed  leisurely  with 
his  full  broad  shoulders  in  rather  a  stooping  posture,  and  his 
large  good-natured  features  and  white  locks  shaded  by  a  broad- 
brimmed  hat. 

“Mr.  Jerome,  I  wonder  at  you,”  said  Mrs.  Jerome,  in  a 
tone  of  indignant  remonstrance,  evidently  sustained  by  a  deep 
sense  of  injury,  as  her  husband  opened  the  parlor  door. 
“  When  will  you  leave  off  invitin’  people  to  meals  an’  not 
lettin’  ’em  know  the  time  ?  I  ’ll  answer  for ’t,  you  niver  said 
a  word  to  Mr.  Tryan  as  we  should  take  tea  at  five  o’clock. 
It ’s  just  like  you  !  ” 

“Nay,  nay,  Susan,”  answered  the  husband,  in  a  soothing 
tone,  “  there ’s  nothin’  amiss.  I  told  Mr.  Tryan  as  we  took 
tea  at  five  punctial ;  mayhap  summat ’s  a-detainin’  on  him. 
He ’s  a  deal  to  do,  an’  to  think  on,  remember.” 

“  Why,  it ’s  struck  six  i’  the  kitchen  a’ready.  It ’s  nonsense 
to  look  for  him  cornin’  now.  So  you  may’s  well  ring  for  th’ 
urn.  Now  Sally’s  got  th’  heater  in  the  fire,  we  may’s  well 
hev  th’  urn  in,  though  he  doesn’t  come.  I  niver  see ’d  the 
like  o’  you,  Mr.  Jerome,  for  axin’  people  an’  givin’  me  the 
trouble  o’  gettin’  things  down  an’  hevin’  crumpets  made,  an’ 
after  all  they  don’t  come.  I  shall  hev  to  wash  every  one  o’ 
these  tea-things  myself,  for  there ’s  no  trustin’  Sally  —  she ’d 
break  a  fortin  i’  crockery  i’  no  time !  ” 

“But  why  will  you  give  yourself  sich  trouble,  Susan  ?  Our 
every-day  tea-things  would  ha’  done  as  well  for  Mr.  Tryan,  an’ 
they  ’re  a  deal  convenenter  to  hold.” 

“Yes,  that’s  just  your  way,  Mr.  Jerome,  you’re  al’ys 
a-findin’  faut  wi’  my  chany,  because  I  bought  it  myself  afore 


282 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

I  was  married.  But  let  me  tell  you,  I  knowed  how  to  choose 
chany  if  I  did  n’t  know  how  to  choose  a  husband.  An’  where ’s 
Lizzie  ?  You ’ve  niver  left  her  i’  the  garden  by  herself,  with 
her  white  frock  on  an’  clean  stoekins  ?  ” 

“  Be  easy,  my  dear  Susan,  be  easy  ;  Lizzie ’s  come  in  wi’ 
Sally.  She ’s  hevin’  her  pinafore  took  off,  I  'll  be  bound.  Al:  ! 
there ’s  Mr.  Try  an  a-comin’  through  the  gate.” 

Mrs.  Jerome  began  hastily  to  adjust  her  damask  napkin  and 
die  expression  of  her  countenance  for  the  reception  of  the 
tlergyman,  and  Mr.  J erome  went  out  to  meet  his  guest,  whom 
he  greeted  outside  the  door. 

“  Mr.  Tryan,  how  do  you  do,  Mr.  Tryan  ?  Welcome  to 
the  White  House !  1 7m  glad  to  see  you,  sir  —  I ’m  glad  to 

see  you.” 

If  you  had  heard  the  tone  of  mingled  good-will,  veneration, 
and  condolence  in  which  this  greeting  was  uttered,  even  with¬ 
out  seeing  the  face  that  completely  harmonized  with  it,  you 
would  have  no  difficulty  in  inferring  the  ground-notes  of  Mr. 
Jerome’s  character.  To  a  fine  ear  that  tone  said  as  plainly 
as  possible  —  “  Whatever  recommends  itself  to  me,  Thomas 
Jerome,  as  piety  and  goodness,  shall  have  my  love  and  honor. 
Ah,  friends,  this  pleasant  world  is  a  sad  one,  too,  is  n’t  it  ? 
Let  us  help  one  another,  let  us  help  one  another.”  And  it 
was  entirely  owing  to  this  basis  of  character,  not  at  all  from 
any  clear  and  precise  doctrinal  discrimination,  that  Mr.  Jerome 
had  very  early  in  life  become  a  Dissenter.  In  his  boyish  days 
he  had  been  thrown  where  Dissent  seemed  to  have  the  balance 
of  piety,  purity,  and  good  works  on  its  side,  and  to  become  a 
Dissenter  seemed  to  him  identical  with  choosing  God  instead 
of  mammon.  That  race  of  Dissenters  is  extinct  in  these  days, 
when  opinion  has  got  far  ahead  of  feeling,  and  every  chapel¬ 
going  youth  can  fill  our  ears  with  the  advantages  of  the  Volun¬ 
tary  system,  the  corruptions  of  a  State  Church,  and  the 
Scriptural  evidence  that  the  first  Christians  were  Congrega- 
tionalists.  Mr.  Jerome  knew  nothing  of  this  theoretic  basis 
for  Dissent,  and  in  the  utmost  extent  of  his  polemical  discus¬ 
sion  he  had  not  gone  further  than  to  question  whether  a 
Christian  man  was  bound  in  conscience  to  distinguish  Christ 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


283 


mas  and  Easter  by  any  peculiar  observance  beyond  the  eating 
of  inince-pies  and  cheese-cakes.  It  seemed  to  him  that  all 
seasons  were  alike  good  for  thanking  God,  departing  from 
evil  and  doing  well,  whereas  it  might  be  desirable  to  restrict 
the  period  for  indulging  in  unwholesome  forms  of  pastry. 
Mr.  Jerome’s  dissent  being  of  this  simple,  non-polemical  kind, 
it  is  easy  to  understand  that  the  report  he  heard  of  Mr.  Tryan 
as  a  good  man  and  a  powerful  preacher,  who  was  stirring  the 
hearts  of  the  people,  had  been  enough  to  attract  him  to  the 
Paddiford  Church,  and  that  having  felt  himself  more  edified 
there  than  he  had  of  late  been  under  Mr.  Stickney’s  discourses 
at  Salem,  he  had  driven  thither  repeatedly  in  the  Sunday 
afternoons,  and  had  sought  an  opportunity  of  making  Mr. 
Tryan’s  acquaintance.  The  evening  lecture  was  a  subject  of 
warm  interest  with  him,  and  the  opposition  Mr.  Tryan  met 
with  gave  that  interest  a  strong  tinge  of  partisanship ;  for 
there  was  a  store  of  irascibility  in  Mr.  Jerome’s  nature  which 
must  find  a  vent  somewhere,  and  in  so  kindly  and  upright  a 
man  could  only  find  it  in  indignation  against  those  whom  he 
held  to  be  enemies  of  truth  and  goodness.  Mr.  Tryan  had 
not  hitherto  been  to  the  White  House,  but  yesterday,  meeting 
Mr.  Jerome  in  the  street,  he  had  at  once  accepted  the  invita¬ 
tion  to  tea,  saying  there  was  something  he  wished  to  talk 
about.  He  appeared  worn  and  fatigued  now,  and  after  shak¬ 
ing  hands  with  Mrs.  Jerome,  threw  himself  into  a  chair  and 
looked  out  on  the  pretty  garden  with  an  air  of  relief. 

“  What  a  nice  place  you  have  here,  Mr.  J erome  !  I  ’ve  not 
seen  anything  so  quiet  and  pretty  since  I  came  to  Milby.  On 
Paddiford  Common,  where  I  live,  you  know,  the  bushes  are 
all  sprinkled  with  soot,  and  there ’s  never  any  quiet  except  in 
the  dead  of  night.” 

“  Dear  heart !  dear  heart !  That ’s  very  bad  —  and  for  you, 
too,  as  hev  to  study.  Would  n’t  it  be  better  for  you  to  be 
somewhere  more  out  i’  the  country  like  ?  ” 

“  Oh  no  !  I  should  lose  so  much  time  in  going  to  and  fro-, 
and  besides,  I  like  to  be  among  the  people.  I ’ve  no  face  to 
go  and  preach  resignation  to  those  poor  things  in  their  smoky 
u.ir  and  comfortless  homes,  when  I  come  straight  from  every’ 


284 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


luxury  myself.  There  are  many  things  quite  lawful  for  other 
men,  which  a  clergyman  must  forego  if  he  would  do  any  good 
in  a  manufacturing  population  like  this.” 

Here  the  preparations  for  tea  were  crowned  by  the  simul¬ 
taneous  appearance  of  Lizzie  and  the  crumpet.  It  is  a  pretty 
surprise,  when  one  visits  an  elderly  couple,  to  see  a  little  fig¬ 
ure  enter  in  a  white  frock  with  a  blond  head  as  smooth  as 
satin,  round  blue  eyes,  and  a  cheek  like  an  apple-blossom.  A 
toddling  little  girl  is  a  centre  of  common  feeling  which  makes 
the  most  dissimilar  people  understand  each  other;  and  Mr. 
Try  an  looked  at  Lizzie  with  that  quiet  pleasure  which  is 
always  genuine. 

“  Here  we  are,  here  we  are  !  ”  said  proud  grandpapa.  “  You 
did  n’t  think  we ’d  got  such  a  little  gell  as  this,  did  you,  Mr. 
Try  an  ?  Why,  it  seems  but  th’  other  day  since  her  mother 
was  just  such  another.  This  is  our  little  Lizzie,  this  is.  Come 
an’  shake  hands  wi’  Mr.  Tryan,  Lizzie  ;  come.” 

Lizzie  advanced  without  hesitation,  and  put  out  one  hand, 
while  she  fingered  her  coral  necklace  with  the  other,  and 
looked  up  into  Mr.  Tryan’s  face  with  a  reconnoitring  gaze. 
He  stroked  the  satin  head,  and  said  in  his  gentlest  voice, 
“  How  do  you  do,  Lizzie  ?  will  you  give  me  a  kiss  ?  ”  She 
put  up  her  little  bud  of  a  mouth,  and  then  retreating  a  little 
and  glancing  down  at  her  frock,  said  — 

“Hit  id  my  noo  fock.  I  put  it  on  ’tod  you  wad  toming. 
Tally  taid  you  would  n’t  ’ook  at  it.” 

“  Hush,  hush,  Lizzie !  little  gells  must  be  seen  and  not 
neard,”  said  Mrs.  Jerome;  while  grandpapa,  winking  signifi¬ 
cantly,  and  looking  radiant  with  delight  at  Lizzie’s  extraordi¬ 
nary  promise  of  cleverness,  set  her  up  on  her  high  cane-chair 
by  the  side  of  grandma,  who  lost  no  time  in  shielding  the 
beauties  of  the  new  frock  with  a  napkin. 

“  Well  now,  Mr.  Tryan,”  said  Mr.  Jerome,  in  a  very  serious 
tone  when  tea  had  been  distributed,  “let  me  hear  how  you  ’re 
a-goin’  on  about  the  lectur.  When  I  was  i’  the  town  yister- 
day,  I  heared  as  there  was  pessecutin’  schemes  a-bein’  laid 
again’  you.  I  fear  me  those  raskills  ’ll  mek  things  very 
onpleasant  to  you.” 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


285 


"I’ve  no  doubt  they  will  attempt  it;  indeed,  I  quite  expect 
there  will  be  a  regular  mob  got  up  on  Sunday  evening,  as 
there  was  when  the  delegates  returned,  on  purpose  to  annoy 
me  and  the  congregation  on  our  way  to  church.” 

“  Ah,  they  ’re  capible  o’  anything,  such  men  as  Dempster  an’ 
Budd;  an’  Tomlinson  backs  ’em  wi’  money,  though  he  can’t 
wi’  brains.  Howiver,  Dempster ’s  lost  one  client  by  his  wicked 
doins,  an’  I ’m  deceived  if  he  won’t  lose  more  nor  one.  I  little 
thought,  Mr.  Tryan,  when  I  put  my  affairs  into  his  hands 
twenty  ’ear  ago  this  Michaelmas,  as  he  was  to  turn  out  a  pes- 
secutor  o’  religion.  I  niver  lighted  on  a  cliverer,  promisiner 
young  man  nor  he  was  then.  They  talked  of  his  bein’  fond 
of  a  extry  glass  now  an’  then,  but  niver  nothin’  like  what  he ’s 
come  to  since.  An’  it’s  head-piece  you  must  look  for  in  a 
lawyer,  Mr.  Tryan,  it  ?s  head-piece.  His  wife,  too,  was  al’ys 
an  uncommon  favorite  o’  mine  —  poor  thing !  I  hear  sad 
stories  about  her  now.  But  she ’s  druv  to  it,  she ’s  druv  to  it, 
Mr.  Tryan.  A  tender-hearted  woman  to  the  poor,  she  is,  as 
iver  lived ;  an’  as  pretty-spoken  a  woman  as  you  need  wish  to 
talk  to.  Yes  !  I ’d  al’ys  a  likin’  for  Dempster  an’  his  wife,  spite 
o’  iverything.  But  as  soon  as  iver  I  beared  o’  that  dilegate 
business,  I  says,  says  I,  that  man  shall  hev  no  more  to  do  wi’ 
my  affairs.  It  may  put  me  t’  inconvenience,  but  I  ’ll  encourage 
no  man  as  pessecutes  religion.” 

“  He  is  evidently  the  brain  and  hand  of  the  persecution,” 
said  Mr.  Tryan.  “  There  may  be  a  strong  feeling  against  me 
in  a  large  number  of  the  inhabitants  —  it  must  be  so  from  tho 
great  ignorance  of  spiritual  things  in  this  place.  But  I  fancy 
there  would  have  been  no  formal  opposition  to  the  lecture,  if 
Dempster  had  not  planned  it.  I  am  not  myself  the  least 
alarmed  at  anything  he  can  do ;  he  will  find  I  am  not  to  be 
cowed  or  driven  away  by  insult  or  personal  danger.  God  has 
sent  me  to  this  place,  and,  by  His  blessing,  I’ll  not  shrink 
from  anything  I  may  have  to  encounter  in  doing  His  work 
among  the  people.  But  I  feel  it  right  to  call  on  all  those  who 
know  the  value  of  the  Gospel,  to  stand  by  me  publicly.  I 
think  —  and  Mr.  Landor  agrees  with  me  —  that  it  will  be  well 
for  my  friends  to  proceed  with  me  in  a  body  to  the  church  on 


286 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE 


Sunday  evening.  Dempster,  you  know,  has  pretended  that 
almost  all  the  respectable  inhabitants  are  opposed  to  the  lec¬ 
ture.  Now,  I  wish  that  falsehood  to  be  visibly  contradicted. 
What  do  you  think  of  the  plan  ?  I  have  to-day  been  to  see 
several  of  my  friends,  who  will  make  a  point  of  being  there 
to  accompany  me,  and  will  communicate  with  others  on  the 
subject.” 

“I'll  make  one,  Mr.  Tryan,  I  ’ll  make  one.  You  shall  not 
be  wantin’  in  any  support  as  I  can  give.  Before  you  come  to 
it,  sir,  Milby  was  a  dead  an’  dark  place  ;  you  are  the  fust  man 
i’  the  Church  to  my  knowledge  as  has  brought  the  word  o’ 
God  home  to  the  people ;  an’  I  ’ll  stan’  by  you,  sir,  I  ’ll  stan’ 
by  you.  I  ’in  a  Dissenter,  Mr.  Tryan  ;  I ’ve  been  a  Dissenter 
ever  sin’  I  was  fifteen  ’ear  old;  but  show  me  good  i’  the 
Church,  an’  I ’m  a  Churchman  too.  When  I  was  a  boy  I  lived 
at  Tilston ;  you  may  n’t  know  the  place  ;  the  best  part  o’  the 
land  there  belonged  to  Squire  Sandeman  ;  he’d  a  club-foot, 
had  Squire  Sandeman  —  lost  a  deal  o’  money  by  canal  shares. 
Well,  sir,  as  I  was  sayin’,  I  lived  at  Tilston,  an’  the  rector 
there  was  a  terrible  drinkin’,  fox-huntin’  man  ;  you  niver  see’d 
such  a  parish  i’  your  time  for  wickedness  ;  Milby ’s  nothin’  to 
it.  Well,  sir,  my  father  was  a  workin’  man,  an’  could  n’t 
afford  to  gi’  me  ony  eddication,  so  I  went  to  a  night-school  as 
was  kep  by  a  Dissenter,  one  Jacob  Wright ;  an’  it  was  from 
that  man,  sir,  as  I  got  my  little  schoolin’  an’  my  knowledge 
o’  religion.  I  went  to  chapel  wi’  Jacob  —  he  was  a  good  man 
was  Jacob  —  an’  to  chapel  I’ve  been  iver  since.  But  I’m  no 
enemy  o’  the  Church,  sir,  when  the  Church  brings  light  to  the 
ignorant  and  the  sinful ;  an’  that ’s  what  you  ’re  a-doin’,  Mr. 
Tryan.  Yes,  sir,  I  ’ll  stan’  by  you.  I  ’ll  go  to  church  wi’  you 
o’  Sunday  evenin’.” 

“You’d  far  better  stay  at  home,  Mr.  Jerome,  if  I  may  give 
my  opinion,”  interposed  Mrs.  J erome.  “  It ’s  not  as  I  hev  n’t 
ivery  respect  for  you,  Mr.  Tryan,  but  Mr.  Jerome  ’ull  do  you 
no  good  by  his  interferin’.  Dissenters  are  not  at  all  looked  on 
i’  Milby,  an’  he’s  as  nervous  as  iver  he  can  be;  he’ll  come 
back  as  ill  as  ill,  an’  niver  let  me  hev  a  wink  o’  sleep  all 
night.” 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


287 


Mrs.  J erome  had  been  frightened  at  the  mention  of  a  mob, 
and  her  retrospective  regard  for  the  religious  communion  of 
her  youth  by  no  means  inspired  her  with  the  temper  of  a 
martyr.  Her  husband  looked  at  her  with  an  expression  of 
tender  and  grieved  remonstrance,  which  might  have  been  that 
of  the  patient  patriarch  on  the  memorable  occasion  when  he 
rebuked  his  wife. 

“  Susan,  Susan,  let  me  beg  on  you  not  to  oppose  me,  and  put 
stumblin’-blocks  i’  the  way  o’  doin’  what ’s  right.  I  can’t  give 
up  my  conscience,  let  me  give  up  what  else  I  may.” 

“  Perhaps,”  said  Mr.  Tryan,  feeling  slightly  uncomfortable, 
“  since  you  are  not  very  strong,  my  dear  sir,  it  will  be  well,  as 
Mrs.  Jerome  suggests,  that  you  should  not  run  the  risk  of  any 
excitement.” 

“  Say  no  more,  Mr,  Tryan.  I  ’ll  stan’  by  you,  sir.  It ’s  my 
duty.  It ’s  the  cause  o’  God,  sir  ;  it ’s  the  cause  o’  God.” 

Mr.  Tryan  obeyed  his  impulse  of  admiration  and  gratitude, 
and  put  out  his  hand  to  the  white-haired  old  man,  saying, 
“  Thank  you,  Mr.  Jerome,  thank  you.” 

Mr.  Jerome  grasped  the  proffered  hand  in  silence,  and  then 
threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  casting  a  regretful  look  at  his 
wife,  which  seemed  to  say,  “Why  don’t  you  feel  with  me, 
Susan  ?  ” 

The  sympathy  of  this  simple-minded  old  man  was  more 
precious  to  Mr.  Tryan  than  any  mere  onlooker  could  have  im¬ 
agined.  To  persons  possessing  a  great  deal  of  that  facile  psy¬ 
chology  which  prejudges  individuals  by  means  of  formulse,  and 
casts  them,  without  further  trouble,  into  duly  lettered  pigeon¬ 
holes,  the  Evangelical  curate  might  seem  to  be  doing  simply 
what  all  other  men  like  to  do  —  carrying  out  objects  which 
were  identified  not  only  with  his  theory,  which  is  but  a  kind 
of  secondary  egoism,  but  also  with  the  primary  egoism  of  his 
feelings.  Opposition  may  become  sweet  to  a  man  when  he  has 
christened  it  persecution  :  a  self-obtrusive,  over-hasty  reformer 
complacently  disclaiming  all  merit,  while  his  friends  call  him 
a  martyr,  has  not  in  reality  a  career  the  most  arduous  to  the 
fleshly  mind.  But  Mr.  Tryan  was  not  cast  in  the  mould  of 
the  gratuitous  martyr.  With  a  power  of  persistence  which 


288 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


had  been  often  blamed  as  obstinacy,  he  had  an  acute  sensibility 
to  the  very  hatred  or  ridicule  he  did  not  flinch  from  provoking. 
Every  form  of  disapproval  jarred  him  painfully ;  and,  though 
he  fronted  his  opponents  manfully,  and  often  with  considerable 
warmth  of  temper,  he  had  no  pugnacious  pleasure  in  the  con¬ 
test.  It  was  one  of  the  weaknesses  of  his  nature  to  be  too 
keenly  alive  to  every  harsh  wind  of  opinion  ;  to  wince  under 
the  frowns  of  the  foolish  ;  to  be  irritated  by  the  injustice  of 
those  who  could  not  possibly  have  the  elements  indispensable 
for  judging  him  rightly  ;  and  with  all  this  acute  sensibility  to 
blame,  this  dependence  on  sympathy,  he  had  for  years  been 
constrained  into  a  position  of  antagonism.  No  wonder,  then, 
that  good  old  Mr.  Jerome’s  cordial  words  were  balm  to  him. 
He  had  often  been  thankful  to  an  old  woman  for  saying  “  God 
bless  you  ;  ”  to  a  little  child  for  smiling  at  him ;  to  a  dog  for 
submitting  to  be  patted  by  him. 

Tea  being  over  by  this  time,  Mr.  Tryan  proposed  a  walk  in 
the  garden  as  a  means  of  dissipating  all  recollection  of  the 
recent  conjugal  dissidence.  Little  Lizzie’s  appeal,  “  Me  go, 
gandpa  !  ”  could  not  be  rejected,  so  she  was  duly  bonneted  and 
pinafored,  and  then  they  turned  out  into  the  evening  sunshine. 
Not  Mrs.  Jerome,  however;  she  had  a  deeply  meditated  plan 
of  retiring  ad  interim  to  the  kitchen  and  washing  up  the  best 
tea-things,  as  a  mode  of  getting  forward  with  the  sadly  retarded 
business  of  the  day. 

“  This  way,  Mr.  Tryan,  this  way,”  said  the  old  gentleman ; 
“  I  must  take  you  to  my  pastur  fust,  an’  show  you  our  cow  — . 
the  best  milker  i’  the  county.  An’  see  here  at  these  back- 
buildins,  how  convenent  the  dairy  is*,  I  planned  it  ivery  bit 
myself.  An’  here  I ’ve  got  my  little  carpenter’s  shop  an’  my 
blacksmith’s  shop  ;  I  do  no  end  o’  jobs  here  myself.  I  niver 
could  bear  to  be  idle,  Mr.  Tryan  ;  I  must  al’ys  be  at  somethin’ 
or  other.  It  was  time  for  me  to  lay  by  business  an’  mek  room 
for  younger  folks.  I ’d  got  money  enough,  wi’  only  one 
daughter  to  leave  it  to,  an’  I  says  to  myself,  says  I,  it’s  time 
to  leave  off  moitherin’  myself  wi’  this  world  so  much,  an’  give 
more  time  to  thinkin’  of  another.  But  there ’s  a  many  hours 
atween  getting  up  an’  lyin’  down,  an’  thoughts  are  no  cumber; 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


289 


you  can  move  about  wi’  a  good  many  on  ’em  in  your  head. 
See,  here ’s  the  pastur.” 

A  very  pretty  pasture  it  was,  where  the  large-spotted  short- 
horned  cow  quietly  chewed  the  cud  as  she  lay  and  looked 
sleepily  at  her  admirers  —  a  daintily  trimmed  hedge  all  round, 
dotted  here  and  there  with  a  mountain-ash  or  a  cherry-tree. 

“  I ’ve  a  good  bit  more  land  besides  this,  worth  youi  while 
to  look  at,  but  mayhap  it’s  further  nor  you’d  like  to  walk 
now.  Bless  you!  I’ve  welly  an  acre  o’  potato-ground  yon- 
ders ;  I ’ve  a  good  big  family  to  supply,  you  know.”  (Here 
Mr.  Jerome  winked  and  smiled  significantly.)  “  An’  that  puts 
me  i’  mind,  Mr.  Tryan,  o’  summat  I  wanted  to  say  to  you. 
Clergymen  like  you,  I  know,  see  a  deal  more  poverty  an’  that, 
than  other  folks,  an’  hev  a  many  claims  on  ’em  more  nor  they 
can  well  meet ;  an’  if  you  ’ll  mek  use  o’  my  purse  any  time,  or 
let  me  know  where  I  can  be  o’  any  help,  I  ’ll  tek  it  very  kind 
on  you.” 

“  Thank  you,  Mr.  Jerome,  I  will  do  so,  I  promise  you.  I 
saw  a  sad  case  yesterday ;  a  collier  —  a  fine  broad-chested 
fellow  about  thirty  —  was  killed  by  the  falling  of  a  wall  in 
the  Paddiford  colliery.  I  was  in  one  of  the  cottages  near, 
when  they  brought  him  home  on  a  door,  and  the  shriek  of  the 
wife  has  been  ringing  in  my  ears  ever  since.  There  are  three 
little  children.  Happily  the  woman  has  her  loom,  so  she  will 
be  able  to  keep  out  of  the  workhouse;  but  she  looks  very 
delicate.” 

“  Give  me  her  name,  Mr.  Tryan,”  said  Mr.  Jerome,  drawing 
out  his  pocket-book.  “  I  ’ll  call  an’  see  her.” 

Deep  was  the  fountain  of  pity  in  the  good  old  man’s  heart ! 
He  often  ate  his  dinner  stintingly,  oppressed  by  the  thought 
that  there  were  men,  women,  and  children,  with  no  dinner  to 
sit  down  to,  and  would  relieve  his  mind  by  going  out  in  the 
afternoon  to  look  for  some  need  that  he  could  supply,  some 
honest  struggle  in  which  he  could  lend  a  helping  hand.  That 
any  living  being  should  want,  was  his  chief  sorrow ;  that  any 
rational  being  should  waste,  was  the  next.  Sally,  indeed,  hav¬ 
ing  been  scolded  by  master  for  a  too  lavish  use  of  sticks  in 
lighting  the  kitchen  fire,  and  various  instances  of  recklessness* 

19 


VOL.  IV. 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


with  regard  to  candle-ends,  considered  him  “  as  mean  as  aeny- 
think ; ”  but  he  had  as  kindly  a  warmth  as  the  morning  sun¬ 
light,  and,  like  the  sunlight,  his  goodness  sh<*ne  on  all  that 
came  in  his  way.  from  the  saucy  rosy-cheeked  lad  whom  he 
delighted  to  make  happy  with  a  Christmas  box,  to  the  pallid 
sufferers  up  dim  entries,  languishing  under  the  tardy  death 
of  want  and  misery. 

It  was  very  pleasant  to  Mr.  Tryan  to  listen  to  the  simple 
chat  of  the  old  man  —  to  walk  in  the  shade  of  the  incompara¬ 
ble  orchard,  and  hear  the  story  of  the  crops  yielded  by  the 
red-streaked  apple-tree,  and  the  quite  embarrassing  plentiful¬ 
ness  of  the  summer-pears  —  to  drink  in  the  sweet  evening 
breath  of  the  garden,  as  they  sat  in  the  alcove  —  and  so,  for  a 
short  interval,  to  feel  the  strain  of  his  pastoral  task  relaxed. 

Perhaps  he  felt  the  return  to  that  task  through  the  dusty 
roads  all  the  more  painfully,  perhaps  something  in  that  quiet 
shady  home  had  reminded  him  of  the  time  before  he  had 
taken  on  him  the  yoke  of  self-denial.  The  strongest  heart 
will  faint  sometimes  under  the  feeling  that  enemies  are  bitter, 
and  that  friends  only  know  half  its  sorrows.  The  most  reso¬ 
lute  soul  will  now  and  then  cast  back  a  yearning  look  in  tread¬ 
ing  the  rough  mountain-path,  away  from  the  greensward  and 
laughing  voices  of  the  valley.  However  it  was,  in  the  nine 
o’clock  twilight  that  evening,  when  Mr.  Tryan  had  entered  his 
small  study  and  turned  the  key  in  the  door,  he  threw  himself 
into  the  chair  before  his  writing-table,  and,  heedless  of  the 
papers  there,  leaned  his  face  low  on  his  hand,  and  moaned 
heavily. 

It  is  apt  to  be  so  in  this  life,  I  think.  While  we  are  coldly 
discussing  a  man’s  career,  sneering  at  his  mistakes,  blaming 
his  rashness,  and  labelling  his  opinions  — 11  Evangelical  and 
narrow,”  or  “  Latitudinarian  and  Pantheistic,”  or  “  Anglican 
and  supercilious”  —  that  man,  in  his  solitude,  is  perhaps  shed¬ 
ding  hot  tears  because  his  sacrifice  is  a  hard  one,  because 
strength  and  patience  are  failing  him  to  speak  the  difficult 
word,  and  do  the  difficult  deed. 


JANET'S  liEPE MTANCE. 


291 


CHAPTER  IX. 


Mr.  Tryan  showed  no  such  symptoms  of  weakness  on  the 
critical  Sunday.  He  unhesitatingly  rejected  the  suggestion 
that  he  should  be  taken  to  church  in  Mr.  Landor’s  carriage  — • 
a  proposition  which  that  gentleman  made  as  an  amendment 
on  the  original  plan,  when  the  rumors  of  meditated  insult 
became  alarming.  Mr.  Tryan  declared  he  would  have  no  pre- 
cautions  taken,  but  would  simply  trust  in  God  and  his  good 
cause.  Some  of  his  more  timid  friends  thought  this  conduct 
rather  defiant  than  wise,  and  reflecting  that  a  mob  has  great 
talents  for  impromptu,  and  that  legal  redress  is  imperfect 
satisfaction  for  having  one’s  head  broken  with  a  brickbat,  were 
beginning  to  question  their  consciences  very  closely  as  to 
whether  it  was  not  a  duty  they  owed  to  their  families  to  stay 
at  home  on  Sunday  evening.  These  timorous  persons,  how¬ 
ever,  were  in  a  small  minority,  and  the  generality  of  Mr. 
Tryan’s  friends  and  hearers  rather  exulted  in  an  opportunity 
of  braving  insult  for  the  sake  of  a  preacher  to  whom  they  were 
attached  on  personal  as  well  as  doctrinal  grounds.  Miss 
Pratt  spoke  of  Cranmer,  Ridley,  and  Latimer,  and  observed 
that  the  present  crisis  afforded  an  occasion  for  emulating  their 
heroism  even  in  these  degenerate  times ;  while  less  highly 
instructed  persons,  whose  memories  were  not  well  stored  with 
precedents,  simply  expressed  their  determination,  as  Mr. 
Jerome  had  done,  to  “  stan’  by  ”  the  preacher  and  his  cause, 
believing  it  to  be  the  “  cause  of  God.” 

On  Sunday  evening,  then,  at  a  quarter  past  six,  Mr.  Tryan, 
setting  Oat  from  Mr.  Landor’s  with  a  party  of  his  friends  who 
had  assembled  there,  was  soon  joined  by  two  other  groups 
from  Mr.  Pratt’s  and  Mr.  Dunn’s  ;  and  stray  persons  on  their 
way  to  church  naturally  falling  into  rank  behind  this  leading 
file,  by  the  time  they  reached  the  entrance  of  Orchard  Street, 
Mr  Tryan’s  friends  formed  a  considerable  procession,  walking 


292 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


three  or  four  abreast.  It  was  in  Orchard  Street,  and  towards 
the  church  gates,  that  the  chief  crowd  was  collected ;  and  at 
Mr.  Dempster’s  drawing-room  window,  on  the  upper  floor,  a 
more  select  assembly  of  Anti-Tryanites  were  gathered  to 
witness  the  entertaining  spectacle  of  the  Tryanites  walking  to 
church  amidst  the  jeers  and  hootings  of  the  crowd. 

To  prompt  the  popular  wit  with  appropriate  sobriquets, 
numerous  copies  of  Mr.  Dempster’s  play-bill  were  posted  on 
the  walls,  in  suitably  large  and  emphatic  type.  As  it  is  pos¬ 
sible  that  the  most  industrious  collector  of  mural  literature 
may  not  have  been  fortunate  enough  to  possess  himself  of  this 
production,  which  ought  by  all  means  to  be  preserved  amongst 
the  materials  of  our  provincial  religious  history,  I  subjoin  a 
faithful  copy. 


GRAND  ENTERTAINMENT!!! 

To  be  given  at  Milby  on  Sunday  evening  next,  by  the 
Famous  Comedian,  TRY-IT-ON ! 

And  his  first-rate  Company,  including  not  only  an 
Unparalleled  Cast  for  Comedy  ! 

But  a  Large  Collection  of  reclaimed  and  converted  Animate. ; 

Among  the  rest 
A  Bear,  who  used  to  dance  t 
A  Parrot,  once  given  to  swearing  It 
A  Polygamous  Pig  !  !  ! 
and 

A  Monkey  who  used  to  catch  fleas  on  a  Sunday  1 1 It 
Together  with  a 
Pair  of  regenerated  Linnets  ! 

With  an  entirely  new  song,  and  plumage. 

Mr.  Try-it-on 

Will  first  pass  through  the  streets,  in  procession,  with  his  unrivalled  Com¬ 
pany,  warranted  to  have  their  eyes  turned  up  higher ,  and  the  corners  of  their 
mouths  turned  down  lower,  than  any  other  company  of  Mountebanks  in  thu 
circuit ! 


AFTER  WHICH 

The  Theatre  will  be  opened,  and  the  entertainment  will 
commence  at  Half-Past  Six, 

When  will  be  presented 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


293 


A  piece,  never  before  performed  on  any  stage,  entitled, 

THE  WOLF  IN  SHEEP’S  CLOTHING; 

or 

The  Methodist  in  a  Mask. 

Mr.  Boanerges  Soft  Sawder, . Mr.  Try-it-ow. 

Old  Ten-per-cent  Godly, . Mr.  Gander. 

Dr.  Feedemup, . Mr.  Tonic. 

Mr.  Lime-Twig  Lady-winner, . Mr.  Try-it-on. 

Miss  Piety  Bait-the-hook, . Miss  Tonic. 

Angelica, . Miss  Seraphina  Tonic 

After  which 

A  miscellaneous  Musical  Interlude,  commencing  with 
The  Lamentations  of  Jerom-iah  ! 

In  nasal  recitative. 


To  be  followed  by 
The  favorite  Cackling  Quartette, 

by 

Two  Hen-birds  who  are  no  chickens  ! 

The  well-known  counter- tenor,  Mr.  Done,  and  a  Gander , 
lineally  descended  from  the  Goose  that  laid  golden  eggs ! 


To  conclude  with  a 
Grand  Chorus  by  the 
Entire  Orchestra  of  Converted.  Animals  ! ! 

But  owing  to  the  unavoidable  absence  (from  illness)  of  the  Bulldog,  who 
has  left  off  fighting ,  Mr.  Tonic  has  kindly  undertaken,  at  a  moment’s  notice, 
to  supply  the  “  bark  !  ” 


The  whole  to  conclude  with  a 
Screaming  Farce  of 
THE  PULPIT  SNATCHER. 

Mr.  Saintly  Smooth-Face, . Mr.  Trt-it-on  ! 

Mr.  Worming  Sneaker,  . Mr.  Try-it-on  ! ! 

Mr.  All-grace  No-works,  .  . . Mr.  Try-it-on  ! ! ! 

Mr.  Elect-and-Chosen  Apewell, . Mr.  Try-it-on  ! ! !  * 

Mr.  Malevolent  Prayerful, . Mr.  Try-it-on  ! ! ! ! ! 

Mr.  Foist-himself-everywhere, . Mr.  Try-it-on  !!!!!! 

Mr.  Flout-the-aged  Upstart, .  Mr.  Try-it-on  !!!!!.! 


Admission  Free.  A  Collection  will  be  made  at  the  Door*. 

Vi  vat  Rex  l 


294 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


This  satire,  though  it  presents  the  keenest  edge  of  Milby 
wit,  does  not  strike  you  as  lacerating,  I  imagine.  But  hatred 
is  like  fire  —  it  makes  even  light  rubbish  deadly.  And  Mr. 
Dempster’s  sarcasms  were  not  merely  visible  on  the  walls ; 
they  were  reflected  in  the  derisive  glances,  and  audible  in  the 
jeering  voices  of  the  crowd.  Through  this  pelting  shower  of 
nicknames  and  bad  puns,  with  an  ad  libitum  accompaniment 
of  groans,  howls,  hisses,  and  hee-haws,  but  of  no  heavier 
missiles,  Mr.  Tryan  walked  pale  and  composed,  giving  his  arm 
to  old  Mr.  Landor,  whose  step  was  feeble.  On  the  other  side 
of  him  was  Mr.  Jerome,  who  still  walked  firmly,  though  his 
shoulders  were  slightly  bowed. 

Outwardly  Mr.  Tryan  was  composed,  but  inwardly  he  was 
suffering  acutely  from  these  tones  of  hatred  and  scorn.  How¬ 
ever  strong  his  consciousness  of  right,  he  found  it  no  stronger 
armor  against  such  weapons  as  derisive  glances  and  virulent 
words,  than  against  stones  and  clubs :  his  conscience  was  in 
repose,  but  his  sensibility  was  bruised. 

Once  more  only  did  the  Evangelical  curate  pass  up  Orchard 
Street  followed  by  a  train  of  friends  ;  once  more  only  was 
there  a  crowd  assembled  to  witness  his  entrance  through  the 
church  gates.  But  that  second  time  no  voice  was  heard  above 
a  whisper,  and  the  whispers  were  words  of  sorrow  and  bless¬ 
ing.  That  second  time  Janet  Dempster  was  not  looking  on 
in  scorn  and  merriment ;  her  eyes  were  worn  with  grief  and 
watching,  and  she  was  following  her  beloved  friend  and  pastor 
to  the  grave. 


♦ 


CHAPTEK  X. 

History,  we  know,  is  apt  to  repeat  herself,  and  to  foist 
very  old  incidents  upon  us  with  only  a  slight  change  of  cos¬ 
tume.  From  the  time  of  Xerxes  downwards,  we  have  seen 
generals  playing  the  braggadocio  at  the  outset  of  their  cam¬ 
paigns,  and  conquering  the  enemy  with  the  greatest  ease  in 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


295 


after-dinner  speeches.  But  events  are  apt  to  be  in  disgusting 
discrepancy  with  the  anticipations  of  the  most  ingenious  tacti¬ 
cians  ;  the  difficulties  of  the  expedition  are  ridiculously  at 
variance  with  able  calculations ;  the  enemy  has  the  impudence 
not  to  fall  into  confusion  as  had  been  reasonably  expected  of 
him ;  the  mind  of  the  gallant  general  begins  to  be  distracted 
by  news  of  intrigues  against  him  at  home,  and,  notwithstand¬ 
ing  the  handsome  compliments  he  paid  to  Providence  as  his 
undoubted  patron  before  setting  out,  there  seems  every  proba^ 
bility  that  the  Te  Deunis  will  be  all  on  the  other  side. 

So  it  fell  out  with  Mr.  Dempster  in  his  memorable  cam¬ 
paign  against  the  Anti-Tryanites.  After  all  the  premature 
triumph  of  the  return  from  Elmstoke,  the  battle  of  the  Evening 
Lecture  had  been  lost ;  the  enemy  was  in  possession  of  the 
field ;  and  the  utmost  hope  remaining  was,  that  by  a  harassing 
guerilla  warfare  he  might  be  driven  to  evacuate  the  country. 

For  some  time  this  sort  of  warfare  was  kept  up  with  con 
siderable  spirit.  The  shafts  of  Milby  ridicule  were  made 
more  formidable  by  being  poisoned  with  calumny ;  and  very 
ugly  stories,  narrated  with  circumstantial  minuteness,  were 
soon  in  circulation  concerning  Mr.  Tryan  and  his  hearers, 
from  which  stories  it  was  plainly  deducible  that  Evangelical¬ 
ism  led  by  a  necessary  consequence  to  hypocritical  indulgence 
in  vice.  Some  old  friendships  were  broken  asunder,  and  there 
were  near  relations  who  felt  that  religious  differences,  unmiti¬ 
gated  by  any  prospect  of  a  legacy,  were  a  sufficient  ground  for 
exhibiting  their  family  antipathy.  Mr.  Budd  harangued  his 
workmen,  and  threatened  them  with  dismissal  if  they  o*  their 
families  were  known  to  attend  the  evening  lecture  ;  and  Mr. 
Tomlinson,  on  discovering  that  his  foreman  was  a  rank 
Tryanite,  blustered  to  a  great  extent,  and  would  have  cash¬ 
iered  that  valuable  functionary  on  the  spot,  if  such  a  retribu¬ 
tive  procedure  had  not  been  inconvenient. 

On  the  whole,  however,  at  the  end  of  a  few  months,  the 
balance  of  substantial  loss  was  on  the  side  of  the  Anti-Tryan¬ 
ites.  Mr.  Pratt,  indeed,  had  lost  a  patient  or  two  besides  Mr. 
Dempster’s  family  ;  but  as  it  was  evident  that  Evangelicalism 
had  not  dried  up  the  stream  of  his  anecdote,  or  in  the  least 


296 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


altered  his  view  of  any  lady’s  constitution,  it  is  probable  that 
a  change  accompanied  by  so  few  outward  and  visible  signs, 
was  rather  the  pretext  than  the  ground  of  his  dismissal  in 
those  additional  cases.  Mr.  Dunn  was  threatened  with  the 
loss  of  several  good  customers,  Mrs.  Phipps  and  Mrs.  Lowme 
having  set  the  example  of  ordering  him  to  send  in  his  bill ; 
and  the  draper  began  to  look  forward  to  his  next  stock-taking 
with  an  anxiety  which  was  but  slightly  mitigated  by  the 
parallel  his  wife  suggested  between  his  own  case  and  that  of 
Sliadrach,  Meshech,  and  Abednego,  who  were  thrust  into  a 
burning  fiery  furnace.  For,  as  he  observed  to  her  the  next 
morning,  with  that  perspicacity  which  belongs  to  the  period 
of  shaving,  whereas  their  deliverance  consisted  in  the  fact 
that  their  linen  and  woollen  goods  were  not  consumed,  his 
own  deliverance  lay  in  precisely  the  opposite  result.  But 
convenience,  that  admirable  branch  system  from  the  main  line 
of  self-interest,  makes  us  all  fellow-helpers  in  spite  of  adverse 
resolutions.  It  is  probable  that  no  speculative  or  theological 
hatred  would  be  ultimately  strong  enough  to  resist  the  per¬ 
suasive  power  of  convenience  :  that  a  latitudinarian  baker, 
whose  bread  was  honorably  free  from  alum,  would  command 
the  custom  of  any  dyspeptic  Puseyite  ;  that  an  Arminian  with 
the  toothache  would  prefer  a  skilful  Calvinistic  dentist  to  a 
bungler  stanch  against  the  doctrines  of  Election  and  Final 
Perseverance,  who  would  be  likely  to  break  the  tooth  in  his 
head  ;  and  that  a  Plymouth  Brother,  who  had  a  well-furnished 
grocery-shop  in  a  favorable  vicinage,  would  occasionally 
have  the  pleasure  of  furnishing  sugar  or  vinegar  to  orthodox 
families  that  found  themselves  unexpectedly  “  out  of  ”  those 
indispensable  commodities.  In  this  persuasive  power  of  con¬ 
venience  lay  Mr.  Dunn’s  ultimate  security  from  martyrdom. 
His  drapery  was  the  best  in  Milby  ;  the  comfortable  use  and 
wont  of  procuring  satisfactory  articles  at  a  moment’s  notice 
proved  too  strong  for  Anti-Tryanite  zeal  5  and  the  draper 
could  soon  look  forward  to  his  next  stock-taking  without  the 
support  of  a  Scriptural  parallel. 

On  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Dempster  had  lost  his  excellent 
client,  Mr.  Jerome  —  a  loss  which  galled  him  out  of  proportion 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE. 


297 


to  the  mere  monetary  deficit  it  represented.  The  attorney 
loved  money,  but  he  loved  power  still  better.  He  had  always 
been  proud  of  having  early  won  the  confidence  of  a  conven¬ 
ticle-goer,  and  of  being  able  to  “turn  the  prop  of  Salem  round 
his  thumb.”  Like  most  other  men,  too,  he  had  a  certain  kind¬ 
ness  towards  those  who  had  employed  him  when  he  was  only 
starting  in  life ;  and  just  as  we  do  not  like  to  part  with  an  old 
weather-glass  from  our  study,  or  a  two-feet  ruler  that  we  have 
carried  in  our  pocket  ever  since  we  began  business,  so  Mr. 
Dempster  did  not  like  having  to  erase  his  old  client’s  name 
from  the  accustomed  drawer  in  the  bureau.  Our  habitual  life 
is  like  a  wall  hung  with  pictures,  which  has  been  shone  on  by 
the  suns  of  many  years  :  take  one  of  the  pictures  away,  and  it 
leaves  a  definite  blank  space,  to  which  our  eyes  can  never  turn 
without  a  sensation  of  discomfort.  Nay,  the  involuntary  loss 
of  any  familiar  object  almost  always  brings  a  chill  as  from  an 
evil  omen  ;  it  seems  to  be  the  first  finger-shadow  of  advancing 
death. 

From  all  these  causes  combined,  Mr.  Dempster  could  never 
think  of  his  lost  client  without  strong  irritation,  and  the  very 
sight  of  Mr.  Jerome  passing  in  the  street  was  wormwood  to 
him. 

One  day,  when  the  old  gentleman  was  coming  up  Orchard 
Street  on  his  roan  mare,  shaking  the  bridle,  and  tickling  her 
flank  with  the  whip  as  usual,  though  there  was  a  perfect  mu¬ 
tual  understanding  that  she  was  not  to  quicken  her  pace,  Janet 
happened  to  be  on  her  own  door-step,  and  he  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  of  stopping  to  speak  to  that  “nice  little  wo¬ 
man,”  as  he  always  called  her,  though  she  was  taller  than  all 
the  rest  of  his  feminine  acquaintances.  Janet,  in  spite  of  her 
disposition  to  take  her  husband’s  part  in  all  public  matters, 
could  bear  no  malice  against  her  old  friend;  so  they  shook 
hands. 

“Well,  Mrs.  Dempster,  I’m  sorry  to  my  heart  not  to  see 
you  sometimes,  that  I  am,”  said  Mr.  Jerome,  in  a  plaintive 
tone.  “  But  if  you ’ve  got  any  poor  people  as  wants  help,  and 
you  know ’s  deservin’,  send  ’em  to  me,  send  ’em  to  me,  just 
the  same.” 


298 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


“  Thank  you,  Mr.  Jerome,  that  I  will.  Good-by.” 

Janet  made  the  interview  as  short  as  she  could,  but  it  was 
not  short  enough  to  escape  the  observation  of  her  husband, 
who,  as  she  feared,  was  on  his  mid-day  return  from  his  office 
at  the  other  end  of  the  street,  and  this  offence  of  hers,  in 
speaking  to  Mr.  Jerome,  was  the  frequently  recurring  theme 
of  Mr.  Dempster’s  objurgatory  domestic  eloquence. 

Associating  the  loss  of  his  old  client  with  Mr.  Tryan’s  influ¬ 
ence,  Dempster  began  to  know  more  distinctly  why  he  hated 
the  obnoxious  curate.  But  a  passionate  hate,  as  well  as  a  pas¬ 
sionate  love,  demands  some  leisure  and  mental  freedom.  Per¬ 
secution  and  revenge,  like  courtship  and  toadyism,  will  not 
prosper  without  a  considerable  expenditure  of  time  and  inge¬ 
nuity,  and  these  are  not  to  spare  with  a  man  whose  law-business 
and  liver  are  both  beginning  to  show  unpleasant  symptoms. 
Such  was  the  disagreeable  turn  affairs  were  taking  with  Mr. 
Dempster,  and,  like  the  general  distracted  by  home  intrigues, 
he  was  too  much  harassed  himself  to  lay  ingenious  plans  for 
harassing  the  enemy. 

Meanwhile,  the  evening  lecture  drew  larger  and  larger  con¬ 
gregations  ;  not  perhaps  attracting  many  from  that  select 
aristocratic  circle  in  which  the  Lowmes  and  Pittmans  were 
predominant,  but  winning  the  larger  proportion  of  Mr.  Crewe’s 
morning  and  afternoon  hearers,  and  thinning  Mr.  Stickney’s 
evening  audiences  at  Salem.  Evangelicalism  was  making  its 
way  in  Milby,  and  gradually  diffusing  its  subtle  odor  into  cham¬ 
bers  that  were  bolted  and  barred  against  it.  The  movement, 
like  all  other  religious  “  revivals,”  had  a  mixed  effect.  Re¬ 
ligious  ideas  have  the  fate  of  melodies,  which,  once  set  afloat 
in  the  world,  are  taken  up  by  all  sorts  of  instruments,  some 
of  them  wofully  coarse,  feeble,  or  out  of  tune,  until  people 
are  in  danger  of  crying  out  that  the  melody  itself  is  detesta¬ 
ble.  It  may  be  that  some  of  Mr.  Tryan’s  hearers  had  gained 
a  religious  vocabulary  rather  than  religious  experience ;  that 
here  and  there  a  weaver’s  wife,  who,  a  few  months  before,  had 
been  simply  a  silly  slattern,  was  converted  into  that  more 
complex  nuisance,  a  silly  and  sanctimonious  slattern ;  that  the 
old  Adam,  with  the  pertinacity  of  middle  age,  continued  to 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


299 


tell  fibs  behind  the  counter,  notwithstanding  the  new  Adam’s 
addiction  to  Bible-reading  and  family  prayer;  that  the  chil¬ 
dren  in  the  Paddiford  Sunday-school  had  their  memories 
crammed  with  phrases  about  the  blood  of  cleansing,  imputed 
righteousness,  and  justification  by  faith  alone,  which  an  ex¬ 
perience  lying  principally  in  chuck-farthing,  hop-scotch,  paren¬ 
tal  slappings,  and  longings  after  unattainable  lollypop,  served 
rather  to  darken  than  to  illustrate  ;  and  that  at  Milby,  in 
those  distant  days,  as  in  all  other  times  and  places  where  the 
mental  atmosphere  is  changing,  and  men  are  inhaling  the  stim¬ 
ulus  of  new  ideas,  folly  often  mistook  itself  for  wisdom,  igno¬ 
rance  gave  itself  airs  of  knowledge,  and  selfishness,  turning  its 
eyes  upward,  called  itself  religion. 

Nevertheless,  Evangelicalism  had  brought  into  palpable  ex¬ 
istence  and  operation  in  Milby  society  that  idea  of  duty,  that 
recognition  of  something  to  be  lived  for  beyond  the  mere  sat¬ 
isfaction  of  self,  which  is  to  the  moral  life  what  the  addition 
of  a  great  central  ganglion  is  to  animal  life.  No  man  can 
begin  to  mould  himself  on  a  faith  or  an  idea  without  rising  to 
a  higher  order  of  experience  :  a  principle  of  subordination,  of 
self-mastery,  has  been  introduced  into  his  nature ;  he  is  no 
longer  a  mere  bundle  of  impressions,  desires,  and  impulses. 
Whatever  might  be  the  weaknesses  of  the  ladies  who  pruned 
the  luxuriance  of  their  lace  and  ribbons,  cut  out  garments  for 
the  poor,  distributed  tracts,  quoted  Scripture,  and  defined  the 
true  Gospel,  they  had  learned  this  —  that  there  was  a  divine 
work  to  be  done  in  life,  a  rule  of  goodness  higher  than  the 
opinion  of  their  neighbors ;  and  if  the  notion  of  a  heaven  in 
reserve  for  themselves  was  a  little  too  prominent,  yet  the 
theory  of  fitness  for  that  heaven  consisted  in  purity  of  heart, 
in  Christ-like  compassion,  in  the  subduing  of  selfish  desires. 
They  might  give  the  name  of  piety  to  much  that  was  only 
puritanic  egoism ;  they  might  call  many  things  sin  that  werr 
not  sin ;  but  they  had  at  least  the  feeling  that  sin  was  to  be 
avoided  and  resisted,  and  color-blindness,  which  may  mistake 
drab  for  scarlet,  is  better  than  total  blindness,  which  sees  no 
distinction  of  color  at  all.  Miss  Rebecca  Linnet,  in  quiet 
attire,  with  a  somewhat  excessive  solemnity  of  countenance, 


300 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


teaching  at  the  Sunday-school,  visiting  the  poor,  and  striving 
after  a  standard  of  purity  and  goodness,  had  surely  more  moral 
loveliness  than  in  those  flaunting  peony  days,  when  she  had 
no  other  model  than  the  costumes  of  the  heroines  in  the  circu¬ 
lating  library.  Miss  Eliza  Pratt,  listening  in  rapt  attention  to 
Mr.  Tryan’s  evening  lecture,  no  doubt  found  evangelical  chan¬ 
nels  for  vanity  and  egoism ;  but  she  was  clearly  in  moral  ad¬ 
vance  of  Miss  Phipps  giggling  under  her  feathers  at  old  Mr. 
Crewe’s  peculiarities  of  enunciation.  And  even  elderly  fathers 
and  mothers,  with  minds,  like  Mrs.  Linnet’s,  too  tough  to  im¬ 
bibe  much  doctrine,  were  the  better  for  having  their  hearts 
inclined  towards  the  new  preacher  as  a  messenger  from  God. 
They  became  ashamed,  perhaps,  of  their  evil  tempers,  ashamed 
of  their  worldliness,  ashamed  of  their  trivial,  futile  past. 
The  first  condition  of  human  goodness  is  something  to  love; 
the  second,  something  to  reverence.  And  this  latter  precious 
gift  was  brought  to  Milby  by  Mr.  Try  an  and  Evangelicalism. 

Yes,  the  movement  was  good,  though  it  had  that  mixture  of 
folly  and  evil  which  often  makes  what  is  good  an  offence  to 
feeble  and  fastidious  minds,  who  want  human  actions  and 
characters  riddled  through  the  sieve  of  their  own  ideas,  before 
they  can  accord  their  sympathy  or  admiration.  Such  minds, 
I  dare  say,  would  have  found  Mr.  Tryan’s  character  very  much 
in  need  of  that  riddling  process.  The  blessed  work  of  helping 
the  world  forward,  happily  does  not  wait  to  be  done  by  per¬ 
fect  men;  and  I  should  imagine  that  neither  Luther  nor  John 
Bunyan,  for  example,  would  have  satisfied  the  modern  demand 
for  an  ideal  hero,  who  believes  nothing  but  what  is  true,  feels 
nothing  but  what  is  exalted,  and  does  nothing  but  what  is 
graceful.  The  real  heroes,  of  God’s  making,  are  quite  differ¬ 
ent  :  they  have  their  natural  heritage  of  love  and  conscience 
which  they  drew  in  with  their  mother’s  milk ;  they  know  one 
or  two  of  those  deep  spiritual  truths  which  are  only  to  be  won 
by  long  wrestling  with  their  own  sins  and  their  own  sorrows ; 
diey  have  earned  faith  and  strength  so  far  as  they  have  done 
genuine  work ;  but  the  rest  is  dry  barren  theory,  blank  preju¬ 
dice,  vague  hearsay.  Their  insight  is  blended  with  mere  opin¬ 
ion  ;  their  sympathy  is  perhaps  confined  in  narrow  conduits  of 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


301 


doctrine,  instead  of  flowing  forth  with  the  freedom  of  a  stream 
that  blesses  every  weed  in  its  course ;  obstinacy  or  self-asser¬ 
tion  will  often  interfuse  itself  with  their  grandest  impulses ; 
and  their  very  deeds  of  self-sacrifice  are  sometimes  only  the 
rebound  of  a  passionate  egoism.  So  it  was  with  Mr.  Tryan: 
and  any  one  looking  at  him  with  the  bird’s-eye  glance  of  a 
critic  might  perhaps  say  that  he  made  the  mistake  of  identify¬ 
ing  Christianity  with  a  too  narrow  doctrinal  system ;  that  he 
saw  God’s  work  too  exclusively  in  antagonism  to  the  world, 
the  flesh,  and  the  devil ;  that  his  intellectual  culture  was  too 
limited  —  and  so  on;  making  Mr.  Tryan  the  text  for  a  wise 
discourse  on  the  characteristics  of  the  Evangelical  school  in 
his  day. 

But  I  am  not  poised  at  that  lofty  height.  I  am  on  the  level 
and  in  the  press  with  him,  as  he  struggles  his  way  along  the 
stony  road,  through  the  crowd  of  unloving  fellow-men.  He  is 
stumbling,  perhaps ;  his  heart  now  beats  fast  with  dread,  now 
heavily  with  anguish ;  his  eyes  are  sometimes  dim  with  tears, 
which  he  makes  haste  to  dash  away  ;  he  pushes  manfully  on, 
with  fluctuating  faith  and  courage,  with  a  sensitive  failing 
body,  at  last  he  falls,  the  struggle  is  ended,  and  the  crowd 
closes  over  the  space  he  has  left. 

“  One  of  the  Evangelical  clergy,  a  disciple  of  Venn/’  says 
the  critic  from  his  bird’s-eye  station.  u  Not  a  remarkable 
specimen  ;  the  anatomy  and  habits  of  his  species  have  been 
determined  long  ago.” 

Yet  surely,  surely  the  only  true  knowledge  of  our  fellow- 
man  is  that  which  enables  us  to  feel  with  him  —  which  gives 
us  a  fine  ear  for  the  heart-pulses  that  are  beating  under  the 
mere  clothes  of  circumstance  and  opinion.  Our  subtlest  analy¬ 
sis  of  schools  and  sects  must  miss  the  essential  truth,  unless  it 
be  lit  up  by  the  love  that  sees  in  all  forms  of  human  thought 
and  work,  the  life  and  death  struggles  of  separate  human 
beings. 


302 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  XL 

Mr.  Tryan’s  most  unfriendly  observers  were  obliged  to 
admit  that  he  gave  himself  no  rest.  Three  sermons  on  Sun¬ 
day,  a  night-school  for  young  men  on  Tuesday,  a  cottage- 
lecture  on  Thursday,  addresses  to  school-teachers,  and  cate¬ 
chising  of  school-children,  with  pastoral  visits,  multiplying  as 
his  influence  extended  beyond  his  own  district  of  Paddiford 
Common,  would  have  been  enough  to  tax  severely  the  powers 
of  a  much  stronger  man.  Mr.  Pratt  remonstrated  with  him 
on  his  imprudence,  but  could  not  prevail  on  him  so  far  to 
economize  time  and  strength  as  to  keep  a  horse.  On  some 
ground  or  other,  which  his  friends  found  difficult  to  explain  to 
themselves,  Mr.  Tryan  seemed  bent  on  wearing  himself  out. 
His  enemies  were  at  no  loss  to  account  for  such  a  course. 
The  Evangelical  curate’s  selfishness  was  clearly  of  too  bad  a 
kind  to  exhibit  itself  after  the  ordinary  manner  of  a  sound, 
respectable  selfishness.  “  He  wants  to  get  the  reputation  of  a 
saint,”  said  one ;  “  He ’s  eaten  up  with  spiritual  pride,”  said 
another  ;  “  He ’s  got  his  eye  on  some  fine  living,  and  wants  to 
creep  up  the  Bishop’s  sleeve,”  said  a  third. 

Mr.  Stickney,  of  Salem,  who  considered  all  voluntary  dis¬ 
comfort  as  a  remnant  of  the  legal  spirit,  pronounced  a  severe 
condemnation  on  this  self-neglect,  and  expressed  his  fear  that 
Mr.  Tryan  was  still  far  from  having  attained  true  Christian 
liberty.  Good  Mr.  Jerome  eagerly  seized  this  doctrinal  view 
of  the  subject  as  a  means  of  enforcing  the  suggestions  of  his 
iwn  benevolence ;  and  one  cloudy  afternoon,  in  the  end  of 
.November,  he  mounted  his  roan  mare  with  th3  determination 
of  riding  to  Paddiford  and  “  arguying  ”  the  point  with  Mr. 
Tryan. 

The  old  gentleman’s  face  looked  very  mournful  as  he  rode 
along  the  dismal  Paddiford  lanes,  between  rows  of  grimy 
houses,  darkened  with  hand-looms,  while  the  black  dust  was 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


303 


whirled  about  him  by  the  cold  November  wind.  He  was 
thinking  of  the  object  which  had  brought  him  on  this  after¬ 
noon  ride,  and  his  thoughts,  according  to  his  habit  when  alone, 
found  vent  every  now  and  then  in  audible  speech.  It  seemed 
to  him,  as  his  eyes  rested  on  this  scene  of  Mr.  Tryan’s  labors, 
that  he  could  understand  the  clergyman’s  self-privation  with¬ 
out  resorting  to  Mr.  Stickney’s  theory  of  defective  spiritual 
enlightenment.  Do  not  philosophic  doctors  tell  us  that  we 
are  unable  to  discern  so  much  as  a  tree,  except  by  an  uncon¬ 
scious  cunning  which  combines  many  past  and  separate  sensa¬ 
tions  ;  that  no  one  sense  is  independent  of  another,  so  that  in 
the  dark  we  can  hardly  taste  a  fricassee,  or  tell  whether  our 
pipe  is  alight  or  not,  and  the  most  intelligent  boy,  if  accom¬ 
modated  with  claws  or  hoofs  instead  of  fingers,  would  be  likely 
to  remain  on  the  lowest  form  ?  If  so,  it  is  easy  to  understand 
that  our  discernment  of  men’s  motives  must  depend  on  the 
completeness  of  the  elements  we  can  bring  from  our  own  sus¬ 
ceptibility  and  our  own  experience.  See  to  it,  friend,  before 
you  pronounce  a  too  hasty  judgment,  that  your  own  moral 
sensibilities  are  not  of  a  hoofed  or  clawed  character.  The 
keenest  eye  will  not  serve,  unless  you  have  the  delicate  fin¬ 
gers,  with  their  subtle  nerve-filaments,  which  elude  scientific 
lenses,  and  lose  themselves  in  the  invisible  world  of  human 
sensations. 

As  for  Mr.  Jerome,  he  drew  the  elements  of  his  moral 
vision  from  the  depths  of  his  veneration  and  pity.  If  he  him¬ 
self  felt  so  much  for  these  poor  things  to  whom  life  Was  so 
dim  and  meagre,  what  must  the  clergyman  feel  who  had 
undertaken  before  God  to  be  their  shepherd  ? 

“  Ah  !  ”  he  whispered,  interruptedly,  “  it ’s  too  big  a  load 
for  his  conscience,  poor  man !  He  wants  to  mek  himself  their 
brother,  like :  can’t  abide  to  preach  to  the  fastin’  on  a  full 
stomach.  Ah  !  he ’s  better  nor  we  are,  that ’s  it  —  he ’s  a  deal 
better  nor  we  are.” 

Here  Mr.  Jerome  shook  his  bridle  violently,  and  looked  up 
with  an  air  of  moral  courage,  as  if  Mr.  Stickney  had  been 
present,  and  liable  to  take  offence  at  this  conclusion.  A  few 
minutes  more  brought  him  in  front  of  Mrs.  Wagstaff’s,  where 


304 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


Mr.  Tryan  lodged.  He  had  often  been  here  before,  so  that 
the  contrast  between  this  ugly  square  brick  house,  with  its 
shabby  bit  of  grass-plot,  stared  at  all  round  by  cottage  win¬ 
dows,  and  his  own  pretty  white  home,  set  in  a  paradise  of 
orchard  and  garden  and  pasture,  was  not  new  to  him  ;  but  he 
felt  it  with  fresh  force  to-day,  as  he  slowly  fastened  his  roan  by 
the  bridle  to  the  wooden  paling,  and  knocked  at  the  door.  Mr. 
Tryan  was  at  home,  and  sent  to  request  that  Mr.  Jerome  would 
walk  up  into  his  study,  as  the  fire  was  out  in  the  parlor  below. 

At  the  mention  of  a  clergyman’s  study,  perhaps,  your  too 
active  imagination  conjures  up  a  perfect  snuggery,  where  the 
general  air  of  comfort  is  rescued  from  a  secular  character  by 
strong  ecclesiastical  suggestions  in  the  shape  of  the  furniture, 
the  pattern  of  the  carpet,  and  the  prints  on  the  wall ;  where,  if 
a  nap  is  taken,  it  is  in  an  easy-chair  with  a  Gothic  back,  and 
the  very  feet  rest  on  a  warm  and  velvety  simulation  of  church 
windows ;  where  the  pure  art  of  rigorous  English  Protestant¬ 
ism  smiles  above  the  mantel-piece  in  the  portrait  of  an  emi¬ 
nent  bishop,  or  a  refined  Anglican  taste  is  indicated  by  a 
German  print  from  Overbeck ;  where  the  walls  are  lined  with 
choice  divinity  in  sombre  binding,  and  the  light  is  softened 
by  a  screen  of  boughs  with  a  gray  church  in  the  background. 

But  I  must  beg  you  to  dismiss  all  such  scenic  prettiness, 
suitable  as  they  may  be  to  a  clergyman’s  character  and  com¬ 
plexion  ;  for  I  have  to  confess  that  Mr.  Tryan’s  study  was  a 
very  ugly  little  room  indeed,  with  an  ugly  slap-dash  pattern 
on  the  walls,  an  ugly  carpet  on  the  floor,  and  an  ugly  view  of 
cottage  roofs  and  cabbage-gardens  from  the  window.  His  own 
person,  his  writing-table,  and  his  book-case,  were  the  only 
objects  in  the  room  that  had  the  slightest  air  of  refinement ; 
and  the  sole  provision  for  comfort  was  a  clumsy  straight- 
backed  arm-chair,  covered  with  faded  chintz.  The  man  who 
could  live  in  such  a  room,  unconstrained  by  poverty,  must 
either  have  his  vision  fed  from  within  by  an  intense  passion, 
or  he  must  have  chosen  that  least  attractive  form  of  self¬ 
mortification  which  wears  no  haircloth  and  has  no  meagre 
days,  but  accepts  the  vulgar,  the  commonplace,  and  the  ugly, 
whenever  the  highest  duty  seems  to  lie  among  them. 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE.  30b 

“  Mr.  Tryan,  I  hope  you  ’ll  excuse  me  disturbin’  on  you,” 
said  Mr.  Jerome  ;  “  but  I ’d  summat  partickler  to  say.” 

“You  don’t  disturb  me  at  all,  Mr.  Jerome;  I’m  very  glad 
to  have  a  visit  from  you,”  said  Mr.  Tryan,  shaking  him 
heartily  by  the  hand,  and  offering  him  the  chintz-covered 
“  easy  ”  chair ;  “  it  is  some  time  since  I ’ve  had  an  opportunity 
of  seeing  you,  except  on  a  Sunday.” 

“  Ah,  sir  !  your  time ’s  so  taken  up,  I ’m  well  aware  o’  that ; 
it ’s  not  only  what  you  hev  to  do,  but  it ’s  goin’  about  from 
place  to  place  ;  an’  you  don’t  keep  a  hoss,  Mr.  Tryan.  You 
don’t  take  care  enough  o’  yourself  — you  don’t  indeed,  an’ 
that’s  what  I  come  to  talk  to  y’  about.” 

“  That ’s  very  good  of  you,  Mr.  J erome  ;  but  I  assure  yon 
I  think  walking  does  me  no  harm.  It  is  rather  a  relief  to  me 
after  speaking  or  writing.  You  know  I  have  no  great  circuit 
to  make.  The  farthest  distance  I  have  to  walk  is  to  Milby 
Church,  and  if  ever  I  want  a  horse  on  a  Sunday,  I  hire 
Radley’s,  who  lives  not  many  hundred  yards  from  me.” 

“  Well,  but  now  !  the  winter ’s  cornin’  on,  an’  you  ’ll  get  wet 
i’  your  feet,  an’  Pratt  tells  me  as  your  constitution ’s  dillicate, 
as  anybody  may  see,  for  the  matter  o’  that,  wi’out  bein’  a  doctor. 
An’  this  is  the  light  I  look  at  it  in,  Mr.  Tryan :  who ’s  to  fill  up 
your  place,  if  you  was  to  be  disabled,  as  I  may  say  ?  Consider 
what  a  valyable  life  yours  is.  You ’ve  begun  a  great  work  1’ 
Milby,  and  so  you  might  carry  it  on,  if  you ’d  your  health  and 
strength.  The  more  care  you  take  o’  yourself,  the  longer  you  ’ll 
live,  belike,  God  willing,  to  do  good  to  your  fellow-creaturs.” 

‘•'Why,  my  dear  Mr.  Jerome,  I  think  I  should  not  be  a  long- 
lived  man  in  any  case ;  and  if  I  were  to  take  care  of  myself 
under  the  pretext  of  doing  more  good,  I  should  very  likely  die 
and  leave  nothing  done  after  all.” 

“Well!  but  keepin’  a  hoss  wouldn’t  hinder  you  from 
workin’.  It  ’ud  help  you  to  do  more,  though  Pratt  says  as  it ’s 
usin’  your  voice  so  constant  as  does  you  the  most  harm.  Now, 
is  n’t  it  —  I  ’in  no  scholard,  Mr.  Tryan,  an’  I ’m  not  a-goin’  to 
dictate  to  you  —  but  isn’t  it  a’most  a-killin’  o’  yourself,  to  go 
on  a’  that  way  beyond  your  strength  ?  We  must  n’t  fling  oui 
lives  away.” 


VOL.  IV 


30G 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


“No,  not  fling  them  away  lightly,  but  we  are  permitted  to 
lay  down  our  lives  in  a  right  cause.  There  are  many  duties, 
as  you  know,  Mr.  Jerome,  which  stand  before  taking  care  of 
our  own  lives.” 

“  Ah !  I  can’t  arguy  wi’  you,  Mr.  Tryan ;  but  what  I  wanted 
to  say ’s  this  —  There ’s  my  little  chacenut  hoss ;  I  should  take 
it  quite  a  kindness  if  you ’d  hev  him  through  the  winter  an’ 
ride  him.  I ’ve  thought  o’  sellin’  him  a  many  times,  for  Mrs. 
Jerome  can’t  abide  him ;  and  what  do  I  want  wi’  two  nags  ? 
But  I ’m  fond  o’  the  little  chacenut,  an’  I  should  n’t  like  to 
sell  him.  So  if  you’ll  only  ride  him  for  me,  you’ll  do  me  a 
kindness  —  you  will,  indeed,  Mr.  Tryan.” 

“Thank  you,  Mr.  Jerome.  I  promise  you  to  ask  for  him, 
when  I  feel  that  I  want  a  nag.  There  is  no  man  I  would  more 
gladly  be  indebted  to  than  you ;  but  at  present  I  would  rather 
not  have  a  horse.  I  should  ride  him  very  little,  and  it  would  be 
an  inconvenience  to  me  to  keep  him  rather  than  otherwise.” 

Mr.  Jerome  looked  troubled  and  hesitating,  as  if  he  had 
something  on  his  mind  that  would  not  readily  shape  itself 
into  words.  At  last  he  said,  “You’ll  excuse  me,  Mr.  Tryan, 
I  would  n’t  be  takin’  a  liberty,  but  I  know  what  great  claims 
you  hev  on  you  as  a  clergyman.  Is  it  the  expense,  Mr.  Tryan  ? 
is  it  the  money  ?  ” 

“No,  my  dear  sir.  I  have  much  more  than  a  single  man 
needs.  My  way  of  living  is  quite  of  my  own  choosing,  and  I 
am  doing  nothing  but  what  I  feel  bound  to  do,  quite  apart 
from  money  considerations.  We  cannot  judge  for  one  another, 
you  know ;  we  have  each  our  peculiar  weaknesses  and  temp¬ 
tations.  I  quite  admit  that  it  might  be  right  for  another  man 
to  allow  himself  more  luxuries,  and  I  assure  you  I  think  it  no 
superiority  in  myself  to  do  without  them.  On  the  contrary, 
if  my  heart  were  less  rebellious,  and  if  I  were  less  liable  to 
temptation,  I  should  not  need  that  sort  of  self-denial.  But,” 
added  Mr.  Tryan,  holding  out  his  hand  to  Mr.  Jerome,  “I 
understand  your  kindness,  and  bless  vou  for  it.  If  I  want  a 
horse,  I  shall  ask  for  the  chestnut.” 

Mr.  Jerome  was  obliged  to  rest  contented  with  this  promise, 
and  rode  home  sorrowfully,  reproaching  himself  with  not 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


307 


having  said  one  thing  he  meant  to  say  when  setting  out,  and 
with  having  “ clean  forgot”  the  arguments  he  had  intended 
to  quote  from  Mr.  Stickney. 

Mr.  Jerome’s  was  not  the  only  mind  that  was  seriously 
disturbed  by  the  idea  that  the  curate  was  over-working  him* 
self.  There  were  tender  women’s  hearts  in  which  anxiety 
about  the  state  of  his  affections  was  beginning  to  be  merged 
in  anxiety  about  the  state  of  his  health.  Miss  Eliza  Pratt 
had  at  one  time  passed  through  much  sleepless  cogitation  on 
the  possibility  of  Mr.  Tryan’s  being  attached  to  some  lady  at 
a  distance  —  at  Laxeter,  perhaps,  where  he  had  formerly  held 
a  curacy ;  and  her  fine  eyes  kept  close  watch  lest  any  symptom 
of  engaged  affections  on  his  part  should  escape  her.  It  seemed 
an  alarming  fact  that  his  handkerchiefs  were  beautifully 
marked  with  hair,  until  she  reflected  that  he  had  an  unmar¬ 
ried  sister  of  whom  he  spoke  with  much  affection  as  his  father’s 
companion  and  comforter.  Besides,  Mr.  Tryan  had  never  paid 
any  distant  visit,  except  one  for  a  few  days  to  his  father,  and 
no  hint  escaped  him  of  his  intending  to  take  a  house,  or  change 
his  mode  of  living.  No !  he  could  not  be  engaged,  though  he 
might  have  been  disappointed.  But  this  latter  misfortune  is 
one  from  which  a  devoted  clergyman  has  been  known  to  re¬ 
cover,  by  the  aid  of  a  fine  pair  of  gray  eyes  that  beam  on  him 
with  affectionate  reverence.  Before  Christmas,  however,  her 
cogitations  began  to  take  another  turn.  She  heard  her  father 
say  very  confidently  that  "  Tryan  was  consumptive,  and  if  he 
did  n’t  take  more  care  of  himself,  his  life  would  not  be  worth 
a  year’s  purchase ;  ”  and  shame  at  having  speculated  on  sup¬ 
positions  that  were  likely  to  prove  so  false,  sent  poor  Miss 
Eliza’s  feelings  with  all  the  stronger  impetus  into  the  one 
channel  of  sorrowful  alarm  at  the  prospect  of  losing  the  pastor 
who  had  opened  to  her  a  new  life  of  piety  and  self-subjection. 
It  is  a  sad  weakness  in  us,  after  all,  that  the  thought  of  a 
man’s  death  hallows  him  anew  to  us ;  as  if  life  were  not  sacred 
too  —  as  if  it  were  comparatively  a  light  thing  to  fail  in  love 
and  reverence  to  the  brother  who  has  to  climb  the  whole  toil¬ 
some  steep  with  us,  and  a7.',  our  tears  and  tenderness  were  due 
to  the  one  who  is  spared  that  hard  journey. 


808 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


The  Miss  Linnets,  too,  were  beginning  to  take  a  new  view 
of  the  future,  entirely  uncolored  by  jealousy  of  Miss  Eliza 
Pratt. 

“Did  you  notice,”  said  Mary,  one  afternoon  when  Mrs. 
Pettifer  was  taking  tea  with  them  —  “  did  you  notice  that 
short  dry  cough  of  Mr.  Tryan’s  yesterday  ?  I  think  he  looks 
worse  and  worse  every  week,  and  I  only  wish  I  knew  his  sis¬ 
ter  ;  I  would  write  to  her  about  him.  I ’m  sure  something 
should  be  done  to  make  him  give  up  part  of  his  work,  and  he 
will  listen  to  no  one  here.” 

“  Ah,”  said  Mrs.  Pettifer,  “  it ’s  a  thousand  pities  his  father 
and  sister  can’t  come  and  live  with  him,  if  he  is  n’t  to  marry. 
But  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  he  could  have  taken  to  some 
nice  woman  as  would  have  made  a  comfortable  home  for  him. 
I  used  to  think  he  might  take  to  Eliza  Pratt ;  she ’s  a  good 
girl,  and  very  pretty ;  but  I  see  no  likelihood  of  it  now.” 

“No,  indeed,”  said  Rebecca,  with  some  emphasis;  “Mr. 
Tryan’s  heart  is  not  for  any  woman  to  win ;  it  is  all  given  to 
his  work ;  and  I  could  never  wish  to  see  him  with  a  young 
inexperienced  wife  who  would  be  a  drag  on  him  instead  of  a 
helpmate.” 

“He’d  need  have  somebody,  young  or  old,”  observed  Mrs. 
Linnet,  “  to  see  as  he  wears  a  flannel  wescoat,  an’  changes  his 
stockins  when  he  comes  in.  It ’s  my  opinion  he ’s  got  that 
cough  wi’  sittin’  i’  wet  shoes  and  stockins ;  an’  that  Mrs.  Wag- 
staff  ’s  a  poor  addle-headed  thing  ;  she  does  n’t  half  tek  care  on 
him.” 

“Oh,  mother!”  said  Rebecca,  “she ’s  a  very  pious  woman. 
And  I ’m  sure  she  thinks  it  too  great  a  privilege  to  have  Mr. 
Tryan  with  her,  not  to  do  the  best  she  can  to  make  him  com¬ 
fortable.  She  can’t  help  her  rooms  being  shabby.” 

“I’ve  nothing  to  say  again’  her  piety,  my  dear;  but  I  know 
very  well  I  should  n’t  like  her  to  cook  my  victual.  When  a 
man  comes  in  hungry  an’  tired,  piety  won’t  feed  him,  I  reckon. 
Hard  carrots  ’ull  lie  heavy  on  his  stomach,  piety  or  no  piety. 
I  called  in  one  day  when  she  was  dishin’  up  Mr.  Tryan’s  din¬ 
ner,  an’  I  could  see  the  potatoes  was  as  watery  as  watery.  It ’s 
right  enough  to  be  speritial  —  I ’m  no  enemy  to  that ;  but  I 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE.  809 

like  my  potatoes  mealy.  I  don’t  see  as  anybody  hill  go  to 
heaven  the  sooner  for  not  digestin’  their  dinner  —  providin’ 
they  don’t  die  sooner,  as  mayhap  Mr.  Try  an  will,  poor  dear 
man  !  ” 

“  It  will  be  a  heavy  day  for  us  all  when  that  comes  to  pass,” 
said  Mrs.  Pettifer.  “We  shall  never  get  anybody  to  fill  up 
that  gap.  There’s  the  new  clergyman  that’s  just  come  to 
Shepperton  —  Mr.  Parry  ;  I  saw  him  the  other  day  at  Mrs. 
Bond’s.  He  may  be  a  very  good  man,  and  a  fine  preacher ; 
they  say  he  is  ;  but  I  thought  to  myself,  What  a  difference  be¬ 
tween  him  and  Mr.  Tryan  !  He ’s  a  sharp-sort-of-looking  man, 
and  has  n’t  that  feeling  way  with  him  that  Mr.  Tryan  has. 
What  is  so  wonderful  to  me  in  Mr.  Tryan  is  the  way  he  puts 
himself  on  a  level  with  one,  and  talks  to  one  like  a  brother. 
I ’m  never  afraid  of  telling  him  anything.  He  never  seems  to 
look  down  on  anybody.  He  knows  how  to  lift  up  those  that 
are  cast  down,  if  ever  man  did.” 

“  Yes,”  said  Mary.  “  And  when  I  see  all  the  faces  turned 
up  to  him  in  Paddiford  Church,  I  often  think  how  hard  it 
would  be  for  any  clergyman  who  had  to  come  after  him ;  he 
has  made  the  people  love  him  so.” 


CHAPTER  XII. 

In  her  occasional  visits  to  her  near  neighbor  Mrs.  Pettifer, 

too  old  a  friend  to  be  shunned  because  she  was  a  Tryanite, 

Janet  was  obliged  sometimes  to  hear  allusions  to  Mr.  Trvan, 

%/ 

and  even  to  listen  to  his  praises,  which  she  usually  met  with 
playful  incredulity. 

“  Ah,  well,”  she  answered  one  day,  11 1  like  dear  old  Mr. 
Crewe  and  his  pipes  a  great  deal  better  than  your  Mr.  Tryan 
and  his  Gospel.  When  I  was  a  little  toddle,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crewe 
used  to  let  me  play  about  in  their  garden,  and  have  a  swing 


310  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

between  the  great  elm-trees,  because  mother  had  no  garden.  I 
like  people  who  are  kind  ;  kindness  is  my  religion  ;  and  that  ’s 
the  reason  I  like  you,  dear  Mrs.  Pettifer,  though  you  are  a 

Tryanite.” 

a  But  that’s  Mr.  Tryan’s  religion  too  —  at  least  partly. 
There’s  nobody  can  give  himself  up  more  to  doing  good 
amongst  the  poor  ;  and  he  thinks  of  their  bodies  too,  as  well 

as  their  souls.” 

«  Qh  yes,  yes  ;  but  then  he  talks  about  faith,  and  grace,  and 
all  that,  making  people  believe  they  are  better  than  others, 
and  that  God  loves  them  more  than  He  does  the  rest  of  the 
world.  I  know  he  has  put  a  great  deal  of  that  into  Sally  Mar¬ 
tin’s  head,  and  it  has  done  her  no  good  at  all.  She  was  as  nice, 
honest,  patient  a  girl  as  need  be  before  5  and  now  she  fancies 
she  has  new  light  and  new  wisdom.  I  don’t  like  those 

notions.” 

u  You  mistake  him,  indeed  you  do,  my  dear  Mrs.  Dempster  5 

I  wish  you ’d  go  and  hear  him  preach.” 

«  Hear  him  preach  !  Why,  you  wicked  woman,  you  would 
persuade  me  to  disobey  my  husband,  would  you  ?  Oh,  shock¬ 
ing  !  I  shall  run  away  from  you.  Good-by.” 

A.  few  days  after  this  conversation,  however,  Janet  went  to 
Sally  Martin’s  about  three  o’clock  in  the  afternoon.  The  pud¬ 
ding  that  had  been  sent  in  for  herself  and  “  Mammy,”  struck 
her  as  just  the  sort  of  delicate  morsel  the  poor  consumptive 
girl  would  be  likely  to  fancy,  and  in  her  usual  impulsive  way 
she  had  started  up  from  the  dinner-table  at  once,  put  on  her 
bonnet,  and  set  off  with  a  covered  plateful  to  the  neighboring 
street.  When  she  entered  the  house  there  was  no  one  to  be 
seen;  but  in  the  little  side-room  where  Sally  lay,  Janet  heard 
a  voice.  It  was  one  she  had  not  heard  before,  but  she  imme 
diately  guessed  it  to  be  Mr.  Tryan’s.  Her  first  impulse  was  to 
set  down  her  plate  and  go  away,  but  Mrs.  Martin  might  not  be 
in,  and  then  there  would  be  no  one  to  give  Sally  that  delicious 
bit  of  pudding.  So  she  stood  still,  and  was  obliged  to  hear 
what  Mr.  Tryan  was  saying.  He  was  interrupted  by  one  of 

the  invalid’s  violent  fits  of  coughing. 

“It  is  very  hard  to  bear,  is  it  not  ?”  he  said  when  she  was 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


811 


still  again.  “  Yet  God  seems  to  support  you  under  it  wonder- 
fully.  Pray  for  me,  Sally,  that  I  may  have  strength  too  when 
the  hour  of  great  suffering  comes.  It  is  one  of  my  worst 
weaknesses  to  shrink  from  bodily  pain,  and  I  think  the  time 
is  perhaps  not  far  off  when  I  shall  have  to  bear  what  you  are 
bearing.  But  now  I  have  tired  you.  We  have  talked  enough. 
Good-by.” 

Janet  was  surprised,  and  forgot  her  wish  not  to  encounter 
Mr.  Try  an ;  the  tone  and  the  words  were  so  unlike  what  she 
had  expected  to  hear.  There  was  none  of  the  self-satisfied 
unction  of  the  teacher,  quoting,  or  exhorting,  or  expounding, 
for  the  benefit  of  the  hearer,  but  a  simple  appeal  for  help, 
a  confession  of  weakness.  Mr.  Tryan  had  his  deeply  felt 
troubles,  then  ?  Mr.  Tryan,  too,  like  herself,  knew  what  it 
was  to  tremble  at  a  foreseen  trial  —  to  shudder  at  an  impending 
burthen,  heavier  than  he  felt  able  to  bear  ? 

The  most  brilliant  deed  of  virtue  could  not  have  inclined 
Janet’s  good-will  towards  Mr.  Tryan  so  much  as  this  fellow¬ 
ship  in  suffering,  and  the  softening  thought  was  in  her  eyes 
when  he  appeared  in  the  doorway,  pale,  weary,  and  depressed.  • 
The  sight  of  Janet  standing  there  with  the  entire  absence  of 
self-consciousness  which  belongs  to  a  new  and  vivid  impres¬ 
sion,  made  him  start  and  pause  a  little.  Their  eyes  met,  and 
they  looked  at  each  other  gravely  for  a  few  moments.  Then 
they  bowed,  and  Mr.  Tryan  passed  out. 

There  is  a  power  in  the  direct  glance  of  a  sincere  and  loving 
human  soul,  which  will  do  more  to  dissipate  prejudice  and 
kindle  charity  than  the  most  elaborate  arguments.  The  fullest 
exposition  of  Mr.  Tryan’s  doctrine  might  not  have  sufficed  to 
convince  Janet  that  he  had  not  an  odious  self-complacency  in 
believing  himself  a  peculiar  child  of  God ;  but  one  direct, 
pathetic  look  of  his  had  associated  him  with  that  conception 
forever. 

This  happened  late  in  the  autumn,  not  long  before  Sally 
Martin  died.  Janet  mentioned  her  new  impression  to  no  one, 
for  she  was  afraid  of  arriving  at  a  still  more  complete  contra¬ 
diction  of  her  former  ideas.  We  have  all  of  us  considerable 
regard  for  our  past  self,  and  are  not  fond  of  casting  reflections 


312 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


on  that  respected  individual  by  a  total  negation  of  his  opinions 
Janet  could  no  longer  think  of  Mr.  Tryan  without  sympathy, 
but  she  still  shrank  from  the  idea  of  becoming  his  hearer  and 
admirer.  That  was  a  reversal  of  the  past  which  was  as  little 
accordant  with  her  inclination  as  her  circumstances. 

And  indeed  this  interview  with  Mr.  Tryan  was  soon  thrust 
into  the  background  of  poor  Janet’s  memory  by  the  daily 
thickening  miseries  of  her  life. 


♦ 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

The  loss  of  Mr.  Jerome  as  a  client  proved  only  the  begin¬ 
ning  of  annoyances  to  Dempster.  That  old  gentleman  had  in 
him  the  vigorous  remnant  of  an  energy  and  perseverance 
which  had  created  his  own  fortune ;  and  being,  as  I  have 
hinted,  given  to  chewing  the  cud  of  a  righteous  indignation 
with  considerable  relish,  he  was  determined  to  carry  on  his 
retributive  war  against  the  persecuting  attorney.  Having 
some  influence  with  Mr.  Pryme,  who  was  one  of  the  most 
substantial  rate-payers  in  the  neighboring  parish  of  Dingley, 
and  who  had  himself  a  complex  and  long-standing  private 
account  with  Dempster,  Mr.  Jerome  stirred  up  this  gentleman 
to  an  investigation  of  some  suspicious  points  in  the  attorney’s 
conduct  of  the  parish  affairs.  The  natural  consequence  was 
a  personal  quarrel  between  Dempster  and  Mr.  Pryme;  the 
client  demanded  his  account,  and  then  followed  the  old  stor} 
of  an  exorbitant  lawyer’s  bill,  with  the  unpleasant  anti-climai 
of  taxing. 

These  disagreeables,  extending  over  many  months,  ran  aion^ 
side  by  side  with  the  pressing  business  of  Mr.  Armstrong’s 
lawsuit,  which  was  threatening  to  take  a  turn  rather  depre* 
ciatory  of  Dempster’s  professional  prevision ;  and  it  is  not 
surprising  that,  being  thus  kept  in  a  constant  state  of  irritated 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE.  S13 

excitement  about  his  own  affairs,  he  had  little  time  for  the 
further  exhibition  of  his  public  spirit,  or  for  rallying  the  for* 
lorn  hope  of  sound  churchmanship  against  cant  and  hypocrisy. 
Not  a  few  persons  who  had  a  grudge  against  him,  began  to 
remark,  with  satisfaction,  that  “Dempster’s  luck  was  forsak¬ 
ing  him ;  ”  particularly  Mrs.  Linnet,  who  thought  she  saw 
distinctly  the  gradual  ripening  of  a  providential  scheme, 
whereby  a  just  retribution  would  be  wrought  on  the  man  who 
had  deprived  her  of  Pye’s  Croft.  On  the  other  hand,  Demp¬ 
ster’s  well-satisfied  clients,  who  were  of  opinion  that  the  pun¬ 
ishment  of  his  wickedness  might  conveniently  be  deferred  to 
another  world,  noticed  with  some  concern  that  he  was  drinking 
more  than  ever,  and  that  both  his  temper  and  his  driving  were 
becoming  more  furious.  Unhappily  those  additional  glasses 
of  brandy,  that  exasperation  of  loud-tongued  abuse,  had  other 
effects  than  any  that  entered  into  the  contemplation  of  anxious 
clients:  they  were  the  little  superadded  symbols  that  were 
perpetually  raising  the  sum  of  home  misery. 

Poor  Janet !  how  heavily  the  months  rolled  on  for  her,  laden 
with  fresh  sorrows  as  the  summer  passed  into  autumn,  the 
autumn  into  winter,  and  the  winter  into  spring  again.  Every 
feverish  morning,  with  its  blank  listlessness  and  despair, 
seemed  more  hateful  than  the  last;  every  coming  night  more 
impossible  to  brave  without  arming  herself  in  leaden  stupor. 
The  morning  light  brought  no  gladness  to  her :  it  seemed  only 
to  throw  its  glare  on  what  had  happened  in  the  dim  candle¬ 
light  —  on  the  cruel  man  seated  immovable  in  drunken  obsti¬ 
nacy  by  the  dead  fire  and  dying  lights  in  the  dining-room, 
rating  her  in  harsh  tones,  reiterating  old  reproaches  —  or  on  a 
hideous  blank  of  something  unremembered,  something  that 
must  have  made  that  dark  bruise  on  her  shoulder,  which 
ached  as  she  dressed  herself. 

Do  you  wonder  how  it  was  that  things  had  come  to  this 
pass  —  what  offence  Janet  had  committed  in  the  early  years 
of  marriage  to  rouse  the  brutal  hatred  of  this  man  ?  The 
seeds  of  things  are  very  small :  the  hours  that  lie  between 
sunrise  and  the  gloom  of  midnight  are  travelled  through  by 
tiniest  markings  of  the  clock  :  and  Janet,  looking  back  along 


314 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


the  fifteen  years  of  her  married  life,  hardly  knew  how  or 
where  this  total  misery  began ;  hardly  knew  when  the  sweet 
wedded  love  and  hope  that  had  set  forever  had  ceased  to 
make  a  twilight  of  memory  and  relenting,  before  the  on¬ 
coming  of  the  utter  dark. 

Old  Mrs.  Dempster  thought  she  saw  the  true  beginning  of 
it  all  in  Janet’s  want  of  housekeeping  skill  and  exactness. 
“  Janet,”  she  said  to  herself,  “  was  always  running  about  doing 
things  for  other  people,  and  neglecting  her  own  house.  That 
provokes  a  man  :  what  use  is  it  for  a  woman  to  be  loving,  and 
making  a  fuss  with  her  husband,  if  she  does  n’t  take  care  and 
keep  his  home  just  as  he  likes  it ;  if  she  is  n’t  at  hand  when 
he  wants  anything  done  ;  if  she  does  n’t  attend  to  all  his 
wishes,  let  them  be  as  small  as  they  may  ?  That  was  what  I 
did  when  I  was  a  wife,  though  I  did  n’t  make  half  so  much 
fuss  about  loving  my  husband.  Then,  Janet  had  no  chil¬ 
dren.”  .  .  .  Ah !  there  Mammy  Dempster  had  touched  a  true 
spring,  not  perhaps  of  her  son’s  cruelty,  but  of  half  Janet’s 
misery.  If  she  had  had  babes  to  rock  to  sleep  —  little  ones 
to  kneel  in  their  night-dress  and  say  their  prayers  at  her  knees 
—  sweet  boys  and  girls  to  put  their  young  arms  round  her  neck 
and  kiss  away  her  tears,  her  poor  hungry  heart  would  have  been 
fed  with  strong  love,  and  might  never  have  needed  that  fiery 
poison  to  still  its  cravings.  Mighty  is  the  force  of  mother¬ 
hood  !  says  the  great  tragic  poet  to  us  across  the  ages,  finding, 
as  usual,  the  simplest  words  for  the  sublimest  fact  —  Savov  to 
tlktciv  ecrTLv.  It  transforms  all  things  by  its  vital  heat :  it 
turns  timidity  into  fierce  courage,  and  dreadless  defiance  into 
tremulous  submission ;  it  turns  thoughtlessness  into  foresight, 
and  yet  stills  all  anxiety  into  calm  content ;  it  makes  selfish¬ 
ness  become  self-denial,  and  gives  even  to  hard  vanity  the 
glance  of  admiring  love.  Yes  ;  if  Janet  had  been  a  mother, 
she  might  have  been  saved  from  much  sin,  and  therefore  from 
much  of  her  sorrow. 

But  do  not  believe  that  it  was  anything  either  present  Gr 
wanting  in  poor  Janet  that  formed  the  motive  of  her  hus¬ 
band’s  cruelty.  Cruelty,  like  every  other  vice,  requires  no 
motive  outside  itself  —  it  onlv  requires  opportunity.  You  do 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


315 


not  suppose  Dempster  had  any  motive  for  drinking  beyond 
the  craving  for  drink ;  the  presence  of  brandy  was  the  only 
necessary  condition.  And  an  unloving,  tyrannous,  brutal  man 
needs  no  motive  to  prompt  his  cruelty  ;  he  needs  only  the 
perpetual  presence  of  a  woman  he  can  call  his  own.  A  whole 
park  full  of  tame  or  timid-eyed  animals  to  torment  at  his  will 
would  not  serve  him  so  well  to  glut  his  lust  of  torture  ;  they 
could  not  feel  as  one  woman  does  ;  they  could  not  throw  out 
the  keen  retort  which  whets  the  edge  of  hatred. 

Janet  s  bitterness  would  overflow  in  ready  words  ^  she  was 
not  to  be  made  meek  by  cruelty  ;  she  would  repent  of  nothing 
m  the  face  of  injustice,  though  she  was  subdued  in  a  moment 
by  a  word  or  a  look  that  recalled  the  old  days  of  fondness  $ 
and  in  times  of  comparative  calm  would  often  recover  hei 
sweet  woman’s  habit  of  caressing  playful  affection.  But  such 
days  were  become  rare,  and  poor  Janet’s  soul  was  kept  like  v, 
vexed  sea,  tossed  by  a  new  storm  before  the  old  waves  have 
fallen.  Proud,  angry  resistance  and  sullen  endurance  were 
now  almost  the  only  alternations  she  knew.  She  would  bear 
it  all  proudly  to  the  world,  but  proudly  towards  him  too ;  her 
woman’s  weakness  might  shriek  a  cry  for  pity  under  a  heavy 
blow,  but  voluntarily  she  would  do  nothing  to  mollify  him,  un¬ 
less  he  first  relented.  What  had  she  ever  done  to  him  but  love 
him  too  well  —  but  believe  in  him  too  foolishly  ?  He  had  no 
pity  on  her  tender  flesh  ;  he  could  strike  the  soft  neck  he  had 
once  asked  to  kiss.  Yet  she  would  not  admit  her  wretched¬ 
ness  ;  she  had  married  him  blindly,  and  she  would  bear  it 
out  to  the  terrible  end,  whatever  that  might  be.  Better  this 
misery  than  the  blank  that  lay  for  her  outside  her  married 
home. 

But  there  was  one  person  who  heard  all  the  plaints  and  all 
the  outbursts  of  bitterness  and  despair  which  Janet  was  never 
tempted  to  pour  into  any  other  ear ;  and  alas  !  in  her  worst 
moments,  Janet  would  throw  out  wild  reproaches  against  that 
patient  listener.  For  the  wrong  that  rouses  our  angry  pas¬ 
sions  finds  only  a  medium  in  us  ;  it  passes  through  us  like  a 
vibration,  and  we  inflict  what  we  have  suffered. 

Mrs.  Raynor  saw  too  clearly  all  through  the  winter  that 


316 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


things  were  getting  worse  in  Orchard  Street.  She  had  evi¬ 
dence  enough  of  it  in  Janet’s  visits  to  her ;  and,  though  her 
own  visits  to  her  daughter  were  so  timed  that  she  saw  little 
of  Dempster  personally,  she  noticed  many  indications  not 
only  that  he  was  drinking  to  greater  excess,  but  that  he  was 
beginning  to  lose  that  physical  power  of  supporting  excess 
which  had  long  been  the  admiration  of  such  fine  spirits  as  Mr 
Tomlinson.  It  seemed  as  if  Dempster  had  some  conscious¬ 
ness  of  this  —  some  new  distrust  of  himself ;  for,  before 
winter  was  over,  it  was  observed  that  he  had  renounced  his 
habit  of  driving  out  alone,  and  was  never  seen  in  his  gig  with¬ 
out  a  servant  by  his  side. 

Nemesis  is  lame,  but  she  is  of  colossal  stature,  like  the 
gods  ;  and  sometimes,  while  her  sword  is  not  yet  unsheathed, 
she  stretches  out  her  huge  left  arm  and  grasps  her  victim. 
The  mighty  hand  is  invisible,  but  the  victim  totters  under  the 
dire  clutch. 

The  various  symptoms  that  things  were  getting  worse  with 
the  Dempsters  afforded  Milby  gossip  something  new  to  say  on 
an  old  subject.  Mrs.  Dempster,  every  one  remarked,  looked 
more  miserable  than  ever,  though  she  kept  up  the  old  pretence 
of  being  happy  and  satisfied.  She  was  scarcely  ever  seen,  as 
she  used  to  be,  going  about  on  her  good-natured  errands  ;  and 
even  old  Mrs.  Crewe,  who  had  always  been  wilfully  blind  to 
anything  wrong  in  her  favorite  Janet,  was  obliged  to  admit 
that  she  had  not  seemed  like  herself  lately.  “  The  poor  thing ’s 
out  of  health,”  said  the  kind  little  old  lady,  in  answer  to  all 
gossip  about  Janet;  “her  headaches  always  were  bad,  and  1 
know  what  headaches  are  ;  why,  they  make  one  quite  delirious 
sometimes.”  Mrs.  Phipps,  for  her  part,  declared  she  would 
never  accept  an  invitation  to  Dempster’s  again ;  it  was  getting 
so  very  disagreeable  to  go  there,  Mrs.  Dempster  was  often  “  so 
strange.”  To  be  sure,  there  were  dreadful  stories  about  the 
way  Dempster  used  his  wife  ;  but  in  Mrs.  Phipps’s  opinion,  it 
was  six  of  one  and  half-a-dozen  of  the  other.  Mrs.  Dempster 
had  never  been  like  other  women ;  she  had  always  a  flighty 
way  with  her,  carrying  parcels  of  snuff  to  old  Mrs.  Tooke,  and 
going  to  drink  tea  with  Mrs.  Brinley,  the  carpenter’s  wife ; 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


817 


and  then  never  taking  care  of  her  clothes,  always  wearing  the 
same  things  week-day  or  Sunday.  A  man  has  a  poor  look-out 
with  a  wife  of  that  sort.  Mr.  Phipps,  amiable  and  laconic, 
wondered  how  it  was  women  were  so  fond  of  running  each 
other  down. 

Mr.  Pratt  having  been  called  in  provisionally  to  a  patient  of 
Mr.  Pilgrim’s  in  a  case  of  compound  fracture,  observed  in  a 
friendly  colloquy  with  his  brother  surgeon  the  next  day  — 

"  So  Dempster  has  left  off  driving  himself,  I  see  ;  he  won’t 
imd  with  a  broken  neck  after  all.  You’ll  have  a  case  of 
meningitis  and  delirium  tremens  instead.” 

‘'Ah,”  said  Mr.  Pilgrim,  “he  can  hardly  stand  it  much 
longer  at  the  rate  he ’s  going  on,  one  would  think.  He ’s  been 
confoundedly  cut  up  about  that  business  of  Armstrong’s,  I 
fancy.  It  may  do  him  some  harm,  perhaps,  but  Dempster 
must  have  feathered  his  nest  pretty  well ;  he  can  afford  to 
lose  a  little  business.” 

“His  business  will  outlast  him,  that’s  pretty  clear,”  said 
Pratt ;  “  he  ’ll  run  down  like  a  watch  with  a  broken  spring- 
one  of  these  days.” 

Another  prognostic  of  evil  to  Dempster  came  at  the  begin¬ 
ning  of  March.  For  then  little  “  Mamsey  ”  died  —  died  sud¬ 
denly.  The  housemaid  found  her  seated  motionless  in  her 
arm-chair,  her  knitting  fallen  down,  and  the  tortoise-shell  cat 
reposing  on  it  unreproved.  The  little  white  old  woman  had 
ended  her  wintry  age  of  patient  sorrow,  believing  to  the  last 
that  “  Robert  might  have  been  a  good  husband  as  he  had  been 
a  good  son.” 

When  the  earth  was  thrown  on  Mamsey’s  coffin,  and  the 
son,  in  crape  scarf  and  hatband,  turned  away  homeward,  his 
good  angel,  lingering  with  outstretched  wing  on  the  edge  c. " 
the  grave,  cast  one  despairing  look  after  him,  and  took  flig1 
forever. 


318 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

The  last  week  in  March  —  three  weeks  after  old  Mrs. 
Dempster  died  —  occurred  the  unpleasant  winding-up  of  affairs 
between  Dempster  and  Mr.  Pry  me,  and  under  this  additional 
source  of  irritation  the  attorney’s  diurnal  drunkenness  had 
taken  on  its  most  ill-tempered  and  brutal  phase.  On  the 
Friday  morning,  before  setting  out  for  Rotherby,  he  told  his 
wife  that  he  had  invited  “  four  men  ”  to  dinner  at  half-past 
six  that  evening.  The  previous  night  had  been  a  terrible  one 
for  Janet,  and  when  her  husband  broke  his  grim  morning 
silence  to  say  these  few  words,  she  was  looking  so  blank  and 
listless  that  he  added  in  a  loud  sharp  key,  “Do  you  hear  what 
I  say  ?  or  must  I  tell  the  cook  ?  ”  She  started,  and  said, 
“Yes,  I  hear.” 

“  Then  mind  and  have  a  dinner  provided,  and  don’t  go  moon¬ 
ing  about  like  crazy  Jane.” 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  Mrs.  Raynor,  quietly  busy  in  her 
kitchen  with  her  household  labors  —  for  she  had  only  a  little 
twelve-year-old  girl  as  a  servant  —  heard  with  trembling  the 
rattling  of  the  garden  gate  and  the  opening  of  the  outer  door. 
She  knew  the  step,  and  in  one  short  moment  she  lived  before¬ 
hand  through  the  coming  scene.  She  hurried  out  of  the  kitchen, 
and  there  in  the  passage,  as  she  had  ,felt,  stood  Janet,  her 
eyes  worn  as  if  by  night-long  watching,  her  dress  careless,  her 
step  languid.  No  cheerful  morning  greeting  to  her  mother  — 
no  kiss.  She  turned  into  the  parlor,  and,  seating  herself  on 
the  sofa  opposite  her  mother’s  chair,  looked  vacantly  at  the 
walls  and  furniture  until  the  corners  of  her  mouth  began  to 
tremble,  and  her  dark  eyes  filled  with  tears  that  fell  unwiped 
down  her  cheeks.  The  mother  sat  silently  opposite  to  her, 
afraid  to  speak.  She  felt  sure  there  was  nothing  new  the 
matter  —  sure  that  the  torrent  of  words  would  come  sooner  or 
later. 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


B19 

“  Mother  !  why  don’t  you  speak  to  me  ?  ”  Janet  burst  out  at 
last ;  “  you  don’t  care  about  my  suffering  ;  you  are  blaming 
me  because  I  feel  —  because  I  am  miserable  ” 

“  My  child,  I  am  not  blaming  you  —  my  heart  is  bleeding 
for  you.  Your  head  is  bad  this  morning  —  you  have  had  a 
bad  night.  Let  me  make  you  a  cup  of  tea  now.  Perhaps  you 
did  n’t  like  your  breakfast.” 

“  Yes,  that  is  what  you  always  think,  mother.  It  is  the  old 
story,  you  think.  You  don’t  ask  me  what  it  is  I  have  had  to 
bear.  You  are  tired  of  hearing  me.  You  are  cruel,  like  the 
rest ;  every  one  is  cruel  in  this  world.  Nothing  but  blame  — 
blame  —  blame;  never  any  pity.  God  is  cruel  to  have  sent 
me  into  the  world  to  bear  all  this  misery.” 

“  Janet,  Janet,  don’t  say  so.  It  is  not  for  us  to  judge;  we 
must  submit ;  we  must  be  thankful  for  the  gift  of  life.” 

“  Thankful  for  life  !  Why  should  I  be  thankful  ?  God  has 
made  me  with  a  heart  to  feel,  and  He  has  sent  me  nothing 
but  misery.  How  could  I  help  it?  How  could  I  know 
what  would  come  ?  Why  did  n’t  you  tell  me,  mother  ?  — 
why  did  you  let  me  marry?  You  knew  what  brutes  men 
could  be  ;  and  there ’s  no  help  for  me  —  no  hope,  I  can’t 
kill  myself ;  I ’ve  tried ;  but  I  can’t  leave  this  world  and  go 
to  another.  There  may  be  no  pity  for  me  there,  as  there  is 
none  here.” 

“  Janet,  my  child,  there  is  pity.  Have  I  ever  done  anything 
but  love  you  ?  And  there  is  pity  in  God.  Has  n’t  He  put 
pity  into  your  heart  for  many  a  poor  sufferer  ?  Where  die1  *t 
come  from,  if  not  from  Him  ?  ” 

Janet’s  nervous  irritation  now  broke  out  into  sobs  instead  of 
complainings ;  and  her  mother  was  thankful,  for  after  that 
crisis  there  would  very  likely  come  relenting,  and  tenderness, 
and  comparative  calm.  She  went  out  to  make  some  tea,  and 
when  she  returned  with  the  tray  in  her  hands,  Janet  had  dried 
her  eyes  and  now  turned  them  towards  her  mother  with  a  faint 
attempt  to  smile ;  but  the  poor  face,  in  its  sad  blurred  beauty, 
looked  all  the  more  piteous. 

“Mother  will  insist  upon  her  tea,”  she  said,  “and  I  really 

think  I  can  drink  a  cup.  But  I  must  go  home  directly,  for 


320 


SCENES  OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


there  are  people  coming  to  dinner.  Could  you  go  with  me  and 
help  me,  mother  ?  ” 

Mrs.  Raynor  was  always  ready  to  do  that.  She  went  to 
Orchard  Street  with  Janet,  and  remained  with  her  through 
the  day  —  comforted,  as  evening  approached,  to  see  her 
become  more  cheerful  and  willing  to  attend  to  her  toilet. 
At  half-past  five  everything  was  in  order ;  Janet  was  dressed; 
and  when  the  mother  had  kissed  her  and  said  good-by,  she 
could  not  help  pausing  a  moment  in  sorrowful  admiration  at 
the  tall  rich  figure,  looking  all  the  grander  for  the  plainness 
of  the  deep  mourning  dress,  and  the  noble  face  with  its  massy 
folds  of  black  hair,  made  matronly  by  a  simple  white  cap. 
Janet  had  that  enduring  beauty  which  belongs  to  pure  majes¬ 
tic  outline  and  depth  of  tint.  Sorrow  and  neglect  leave  their 
traces  on  such  beauty,  but  it  thrills  us  to  the  last,  like  a  glo¬ 
rious  Greek  temple,  which,  for  all  the  loss  it  has  suffered  from 
time  and  barbarous  hands,  has  gained  a  solemn  history,  and 
fills  our  imagination  the  more  because  it  is  incomplete  to  the 
sense. 

It  was  six  o’clock  before  Dempster  returned  from  Rotherby. 
He  had  evidently  drunk  a  great  deal,  and  was  in  an  angry 
humor ;  but  Janet,  who  had  gathered  some  little  courage  and 
forbearance  from  the  consciousness  that  she  had  done  her  best 
to-day,  was  determined  to  speak  pleasantly  to  him. 

“  Robert,”  she  said  gently,  as  she  saw  him  seat  himself  in 
the  dining-room  in  his  dusty  snuffy  clothes,  and  take  some 
documents  out  of  his  pocket,  “will  you  not  wash  and  change 
your  dress  ?  It  will  refresh  you.” 

“  Leave  me  alone,  will  you  ?  ”  said  Dempster,  in  his  most 
brutal  tone. 

“Do  change  your  coat  and  waistcoat,  they  are  so  dusty. 
I  ’ve  laid  all  your  things  out  ready.” 

“  Oh,  you  have,  have  you  ?  ”  After  a  few  minutes  he  rose 
very  deliberately  and  walked  up-stairs  into  his  bedroom. 
Janet  had  often  been  scolded  before  for  not  laying  out  his 
clothes,  and  she  thought  now,  not  without  some  wonder,  that 
this  attention  of  hers  had  brought  him  to  compliance. 

Presently  he  called  out,  “  Janet !”  and  she  went  up-stairs. 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


321 


s*  HGre !  take  that ! ”  he  said,  as  soon  as  she  reached  the 
door,  flinging  at  her  the  coat  she  had  laid  out.  “Another 
time,  leave  me  to  do  as  I  please,  will  you  ?  ”• 

The  coat,  flung  with  great  force,  only  brushed  her  shoulder, 
and  fell  some  distance  within  the  drawing-room,  the  door  of 
which  stood  open  just  opposite.  She  hastily  retreated  as  she 
saw  the  waistcoat  coming,  and  one  by  one  the  clothes  she  had 
laid  out  were  all  flung  into  the  drawing-room. 

Janet's  face  flushed  with  auger,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life  her  resentment  overcame  the  long-cherished  pride  that 
made  her  hide  her  griefs  from  the  world.  There  are  moments 
when  by  some  strange  impulse  we  contradict  our  past  selves  — 
fatal  moments,  when  a  fit  of  passion,  like  a  lava  stream,  lays 
low  the  work  of  half  our  lives.  Janet  thought,  “I  will  not 
pick  up  the  clothes;  they  shall  lie  there  until  the  visitors 
come,  and  he  shall  be  ashamed  of  himself.” 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  she  made  haste  to  seat 
herself  in  the  drawing-room,  lest  the  servant  should  enter  and 
remove  the  clothes,  which  were  lying  half  on  the  table  and 
half  on  the  ground.  Mr.  Lowme  entered  with  a  less  familiar 
visitor,  a  client  of  Dempster's,  and  the  next  moment  Dempster 
himself  came  in. 

His  eye  fell  at  once  on  the  clothes,  and  then  turned  for  an 
instant  with  a  devilish  glance  of  concentrated  hatred  on  Janet, 
who,  still  flushed  and  excited,  affected  unconsciousness.  After 
shaking  hands  with  his  visitors  he  immediately  rang  the  bell. 

“  Take  those  clothes  away,”  he  said  to  the  servant,  not  look¬ 
ing  at  Janet  again. 

During  dinner,  she  kept  up  her  assumed  air  of  indifference, 
and  tried  to  seem  in  high  spirits,  laughing  and  talking  more 
than  usual.  In  reality,  she  felt  as  if  she  had  defied  a  wild 
beast  within  the  four  walls  of  his  den,  and  he  was  crouching 
backward  in  preparation  for  his  deadly  spring.  Dempster 
affected  to  take  no  notice  of  her,  talked  obstreperously,  and 
drank  steadily. 

About  eleven  the  party  dispersed,  with  the  exception  of  Mr. 
Budd,  who  had  joined  them  after  dinner,  and  appeared  dis¬ 
posed  to  stay  drinking  a  little  longer.  Janet  began  to  hope 
^OL.  iv.  21 


822 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


that  he  would  stay  long  enough  for  Dempster  to  become  heavy 
and  stupid,  and  so  to  fall  asleep  down-stairs,  which  was  a  rare 
but  occasional  ending  of  his  nights.  She  told  the  servants  to 
sit  up  no  longer,  and  she  herself  undressed  and  went  to  bed, 
trying  to  cheat  her  imagination  into  the  belief  that  the  day 
was  ended  for  her.  But  when  she  lay  down,  she  became  more 
intensely  awake  than  ever.  Everything  she  had  taken  this 
evening  seemed  only  to  stimulate  her  senses  and  her  appre¬ 
hensions  to  new  vividness.  Her  heart  beat  violently,  and  she 
heard  every  sound  in  the  house. 

At  last,  when  it  was  twelve,  she  heard  Mr.  Budd  go  out; 
she  heard  the  door  slam.  Dempster  had  not  moved.  Was  he 
asleep  ?  Would  he  forget  ?  The  minute  seemed  long,  while, 
with  a  quickening  pulse,  she  was  on  the  stretch  to  catch  every 
sound. 

“  Janet !  ”  The  loud  jarring  voice  seemed  to  strike  her  like 
a  hurled  weapon. 

“  Janet !  ”  he  called  again,  moving  out  of  the  dining-room  to 
the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

There  was  a  pause  of  a  minute. 

“If  you  don’t  come,  I  ’ll  kill  you.” 

Another  pause,  and  she  heard  him  turn  back  into  the  dining¬ 
room.  He  was  gone  for  a  light  —  perhaps  for  a  weapon. 
Perhaps  he  would  kill  her.  Let  him.  Life  was  as  hideous 
as  death.  For  years  she  had  been  rushing  on  to  some  un¬ 
known  but  certain  horror ;  and  now  she  was  close  upon  it. 
She  was  almost  glad.  She  was  in  a  state  of  flushed  feverish 
defiance  that  neutralized  her  woman’s  terrors. 

She  heard  his  heavy  step  on  the  stairs ;  she  saw  the  slowly 
advancing  light.  Then  she  saw  the  tall  massive  figure,  and 
the  heavy  face,  now  fierce  with  drunken  rage.  He  had  noth¬ 
ing  but  the  candle  in  his  hand.  He  set  it  down  on  the  table, 
and  advanced  close  to  the  bed. 

“So  you  think  you’ll  defy  me,  do  you?  We’ll  see  how 
long  that  will  last.  Get  up,  madam  ;  out  of  bed  this  instant !  ” 

In  the  close  presence  of  the  dreadful  man  —  of  this  huge 
crushing  force,  armed  with  savage  will  —  poor  Janet’s  desper¬ 
ate  defiance  all  forsook  her,  and  her  terrors  came  back.  Trenr 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE.  323 

bling  she  got  up,  and  stood  helpless  in  her  night-dress  before 
her  husband. 

He  seized  her  with  his  heavy  grasp  by  the  shoulder,  and 
pushed  her  before  him. 

“  I T1  cool  your  hot  spirit  for  you !  I  ’ll  teach  you  to  brave 
me !  ” 

Slowly  he  pushed  her  along  before  him,  down-stairs  and 
through  the  passage,  where  a  small  oil-lamp  was  still  flicker¬ 
ing.  What  was  he  going  to  do  to  her  ?  She  thought  every 
moment  he  was  going  to  dash  her  before  him  on  the  ground. 
But  she  gave  no  scream  —  she  only  trembled. 

He  pushed  her  on  to  the  entrance,  and  held  her  firmly  in 
his  grasp  while  he  lifted  the  latch  of  the  door.  Then  he 
opened  the  door  a  little  way,  thrust  her  out,  and  slammed  it 
behind  her. 

For  a  short  space,  it  seemed  like  a  deliverance  to  Janet. 
The  harsh  northeast  wind,  that  blew  through  her  thin  night¬ 
dress,  and  sent  her  long  heavy  black  hair  streaming,  seemed 
like  the  breath  of  pity  after  the  grasp  of  that  threatening 
monster.  But  soon  the  sense  of  release  from  an  overpowering 
terror  gave  way  before  the  sense  of  the  fate  that  had  really 
come  upon  her. 

This,  then,  was  what  she  had  been  travelling  towards  thro  ugh 
her  long  years  of  misery  !  Not  yet  death.  Oh  !  if  she  had 
been  brave  enough  for  it,  death  would  have  been  better.  The 
servants  slept  at  the  back  of  the  house ;  it  was  impossible  to 
make  them  hear,  so  that  they  might  let  her  in  again  quietly, 
without  her  husband’s  knowledge.  And  she  would  not  have 
tried.  He  had  thrust  her  out,  and  it  should  be  forever. 

There  would  have  been  dead  silence  in  Orchard  Street  but 
for  the  whistling  of  the  wind  and  the  swirling  of  the  March 
dust  on  the  pavement.  Thick  clouds  covered  the  sky;  every 
door  was  closed ;  every  window  was  dark.  No  ray  of  light 
fell  on  the  tall  white  figure  that  stood  in  lonely  misery  on  the 
door-step  ;  no  eye  rested  on  Janet  as  she  sank  down  on  the  cold 
stone,  and  looked  into  the  dismal  night.  She  seemed  to  be 
looking  into  her  own  blank  future. 


324 


.SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE, 


CHAPTER  XV. 

The  stony  street,  the  bitter  northeast  wind  and  darkness  — 
,ind  in  the  midst  of  them  a  tender  woman  thrust  out  from  her 
husband’s  home  in  her  thin  night-dress,  the  harsh  wind  cutting 
her  naked  feet,  and  driving  her  long  hair  away  from  her  half- 
clad  bosom,  where  the  poor  heart  is  crushed  with  anguish  and 
despair. 

The  drowning  man,  urged  by  the  supreme  agony,  lives  in  an 
instant  through  all  his  happy  and  unhappy  past:  when  the 
dark  flood  has  fallen  like  a  curtain,  memory,  in  a  single  mo¬ 
ment,  sees  the  drama  acted  over  again.  And  even  in  those 
earlier  crises,  which  are  but  types  of  death  —  when  we  are  cut 
off  abruptly  from  the  life  we  have  known,  when  we  can  no 
longer  expect  to-morrow  to  resemble  yesterday,  and  find  our¬ 
selves  by  some  sudden  shock  on  the  confines  of  the  unknown 

—  there  is  often  the  same  sort  of  lightning-flash  through  the 
dark  and  unfrequented  chambers  of  memory. 

When  Janet  sat  down  shivering  on  the  door-stone,  with  the 
door  shut  upon  her  past  life,  and  th  j  future  black  and  un- 
shapen  before  her  as  the  night,  the  scenes  of  her  childhood, 
her  youth  and  her  painful  womanhood,  rushed  back  upon  her 
consciousness,  and  made  one  picture  with  her  present  desola¬ 
tion.  The  petted  child  taking  her  newest  toy  to  bed  with  her 

—  the  young  girl,  proud  in  strength  and  beauty,  dreaming  that 
life  was  an  easy  thing,  and  that  it  was  pitiful  weakness  to  be 
unhappy  —  the  bride,  passing  with  trembling  joy  from  the 
outer  court  to  the  inner  sanctuary  of  woman’s  life  —  the  wife, 
beginning  her  initiation  into  sorrow,  wounded,  resenting,  yet 
still  hoping  and  forgiving  —  the  poor  bruised  woman,  seeking 
through  weary  years  the  one  refuge  of  despair,  oblivion  :  — 
Janet  seemed  to  herself  all  these  in  the  same  moment  that  she 
was  conscious  of  being  seated  on  the  cold  stone  under  the 
shock  of  a  new  misery.  All  her  early  gladness,  all  her  bright 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


325 


hopes  and  illnsi-  ns,  all  her  gifts  of  beauty  and  affection,  served 
only  to  darken  the  riddle  of  her  life;  they  were  the  betraying 
promises  of  a  cruel  destiny  which  had  brought  out  those  sweet 
blossoms  only  that  the  winds  and  storms  might  have  a  greatei 
work  of  desolation,  which  had  nursed  her  like  a  pet  fawn  intti 
tenderness  and  fond  expectation,  only  that  she  might  feel  a 
keener  terror  in  the  clutch  of  the  panther.  Her  mother  had 
sometimes  said  that  troubles  were  sent  to  make  us  better  and 
draw  us  nearer  to  God.  What  mockery  that  seemed  to  Janet! 
Her  troubles  had  been  sinking  her  lower  from  year  to  year, 
pressing  upon  her  like  heavy  fever-laden  vapors,  and  pervert¬ 
ing  the  very  plenitude  of  her  nature  into  a  deeper  source  of 
disease.  Her  wretchedness  had  been  a  perpetually  tightening 
instrument  of  torture,  which  had  gradually  absorbed  all  the 
other  sensibilities  of  her  nature  into  the  sense  of  pain  and  the 
maddened  craving  for  relief.  Oh,  if  some  ray  of  hope,  of  pity, 
of  consolation,  would  pierce  through  the  horrible  gloom,  she 
might  believe  then  in  a  Divine  love  —  in  a  heavenly  Father 
who  cared  for  His  children !  But  now  she  had  no  faith,  no 
trust.  There  was  nothing  she  could  lean  on  in  the  wide  world, 
for  her  mother  was  only  a  fellow-sufferer  in  her  own  lot.  The 
poor  patient  woman  could  do  little  more  than  mourn  with  her 
daughter :  she  had  humble  resignation  enough  to  sustain  her 
own  soul,  but  she  could  no  more  give  comfort  and  fortitude  to 
Janet,  than  the  withered  ivy-covered  trunk  can  bear  up  its 
strong,  full-bouglied  offspring  crashing  down  under  an  Alpine 
storm.  Janet  felt  she  was  alone:  no  human  soul  had  meas¬ 
ured  her  anguish,  had  understood  her  self-despair,  had  entered 
into  her  sorrows  and  her  sins  with  that  deep-sighted  sympathy 
which  is  wiser  than  all  blame,  more  potent  than  all  reproof  — 
such  sympathy  as  had  swelled  her  own  heart  for  many  a  suf¬ 
ferer.  And  if  there  was  any  Divine  Pity,  she  could  not  fee] 
it ;  it  kept  aloof  from  her,  it  poured  no  balm  into  her  wounds, 
it  stretched  out  no  hand  to  bear  up  her  weak  resolve,  to  fortify 
her  fainting  courage. 

Now,  in  her  utmost  loneliness,  she  shed  no  tear:  she  sat 
staring  fixedly  into  the  darkness,  while  inwardly  she  gazed  at 
her  own  past,  almost  losing  the  sense  that  it  was  her  own,  or 


826  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

that  she  was  anything  more  than  a  spectator  at  a  strange  and 
dreadful  play. 

The  loud  sound  of  the  church  clock,  striking  one,  startled 
her.  She  had  not  been  there  more  than  half  an  hour,  then  f 
And  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  had  been  there  half  the  night. 
She  was  getting  benumbed  with  cold.  With  that  strong  in. 
stinctive  dread  of  pain  and  death  which  had  made  her  recoil 
from  suicide,  she  started  up,  and  the  disagreeable  sensation  ol 
resting  on  her  benumbed  feet  helped  to  recall  her  completely 
to  the  sense  of  the  present.  The  wind  was  beginning  to  make 
rents  in  the  clouds,  and  there  came  every  now  and  then  a  dim 
light  of  stars  that  frightened  her  more  than  the  darkness ;  it 
was  like  a  cruel  finger  pointing  her  out  in  her  wretchedness 
and  humiliation ;  it  made  her  shudder  at  the  thought  of  the 
morning  twilight.  What  could  she  do?  Not  go  to  her 
mother  —  not  rouse  her  in  the  dead  of  night  to  tell  her  this. 
Her  mother  would  think  she  was  a  spectre  ;  it  would  be  enough 
to  kill  her  with  horror.  And  the  way  there  was  so  long  .  .  . 
if  she  should  meet  some  one  .  .  .  yet  she  must  seek  some  shel¬ 
ter,  somewhere  to  hide  herself.  Five  doors  off  there  was  Mrs, 
Pettifer’s  ;  that  kind  woman  would  take  her  in.  It  was  of  no 
use  now  to  be  proud  and  mind  about  the  world’s  knowing :  she 
had  nothing  to  wish  for,  nothing  to  care  about;  only  she  could 
not  help  shuddering  at  the  thought  of  braving  the  morning 
light,  there  in  the  street  —  she  was  frightened  at  the  thought 
of  spending  long  hours  in  the  cold.  Life  might  mean  anguish, 
miffht  mean  despair ;  but  —  oh,  she  must  clutch  it,  though 
with  bleeding  fingers ;  her  feet  must  cling  to  the  firm  earth 
that  the  sunlight  would  revisit,  not  slip  into  the  untried  abyss, 
where  she  might  long  even  for  familiar  pains. 

Janet  trod  slowly  with  her  naked  feet  on  the  rough  pave¬ 
ment,  trembling  at  the  fitful  gleams  of  starlight,  and  support¬ 
ing  herself  by  the  wall,  as  the  gusts  of  wind  drove  right  against 
her.  The  very  wind  was  cruel :  it  tried  to  push  her  back  from 
the  door  where  she  wanted  to  go  and  knock  and  ask  for  pity. 

Mrs.  Pettifer’s  house  did  net  look  into  Orchard  Street :  it 
stood  a  little  way  up  a  wide  passage  which  opened  into  the 
street  through  an  archway.  Janet  turned  up  the  archway,  and 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE.  327 

saw  a  faint  light  coming  from  Mrs.  Pettifer’s  bedroom  window. 
The  glimmer  of  a  rushlight  from  a  room  where  a  friend  was 
lying,  was  like  a  ray  of  mercy  to  Janet,  after  that  long,  long 
time  of  darkness  and  loneliness ;  it  would  not  be  so  dreadful 
to  awake  Mrs.  Pettifer  as  she  had  thought.  Yet  she  lingered 
some  minutes  at  the  door  before  she  gathered  courage  to  knock  : 
she  felt  as  if  the  sound  must  betray  her  to  others  besides  Mrs. 
Pettifer,  though  there  was  no  other  dwelling  that  opened  into 
the  passage  —  only  warehouses  and  outbuildings.  There  was 
no  gravel  for  her  to  throw  up  at  the  window,  nothing  but  heavy 
pavement ;  there  was  no  door-bell ;  she  must  knock.  Her  first 
rap  was  very  timid  —  one  feeble  fall  of  the  knocker  ;  and  then 
she  stood  still  again  for  many  minutes ;  but  presently  she  ral¬ 
lied  her  courage  and  knocked  several  times  together,  not  loudly, 
but  rapidly,  so  that  Mrs.  Pettifer,  if  she  only  heard  the  sound, 
could  not  mistake  it.  And  she  had  heard  it,  for  by-and-by  the 
casement  of  her  window  was  opened,  and  Janet  perceived  that 
she  was  bending  out  to  try  and  discern  who  it  was  at  the 
door. 

“It  is  I,  Mrs.  Pettifer;  it  is  Janet  Dempster.  Take  me  in, 
for  pity’s  sake.” 

“  Merciful  God  !  what  has  happened  ?  ” 

“Robert  has  turned  me  out.  I  have  been  in  the  cold  a  long 
while.” 

Mrs.  Pettifer  said  no  more,  but  hurried  away  from  the  win 
dow,  and  was  soon  at  the  door  with  a  light  in  her  hand. 

“  Come  in,  my  poor  dear,  come  in,”  said  the  good  woman  in 
a  tremulous  voice,  drawing  Janet  within  the  door.  “Come 
into  my  warm  bed,  and  may  God  in  heaven  save  and  comfort 
you.” 

The  pitying  eyes,  the  tender  voice,  the  warm  touch,  caused 
a  rush  of  new  feeling  in  Janet.  Her  heart  swelled,  and  she 
burst  out  suddenly,  like  a  child,  into  loud  passionate  sobs 
Mrs.  Pettifer  could  not  help  crying  with  her,  but  she  said, 
“Come  up-stairs,  my  dear,  come.  Don’t  linger  in  the  cold.” 

She  drew  the  poor  sobbing  thing  gently  up-stairs,  and  per 
suaded  her  to  get  into  the  warm  bed.  But  it  was  long  before 
Janet  could  lie  down.  She  sat  leaning  her  head  on  her  knees 


328 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


convulsed  by  sobs,  while  the  motherly  woman  covered  her 
with  clothes  and  held  her  arms  round  her  to  comfort  her  with 
warmth.  At  last  the  hysterical  passion  had  exhausted  itself, 
and  she  fell  back  on  the  pillow ;  but  her  throat  was  still  agitated 
by  piteous  after-sobs,  such  as  shake  a  little  child  even  when  it 
has  found  a  refuge  from  its  alarms  on  its  mother’s  lap. 

Now  Janet  was  getting  quieter,  Mrs.  Pettifer  determined  to 
go  down  and  make  a  cup  of  tea,  the  first  thing  a  kind  old  wo¬ 
man  thinks  of  as  a  solace  and  restorative  under  all  calamities. 
Happily  there  was  no  danger  of  awaking  her  servant,  a  heavy 
girl  of  sixteen,  who  was  snoring  blissfully  in  the  attic,  and 
might  be  kept  ignorant  of  the  way  in  which  Mrs.  Dempster 
had  come  in.  So  Mrs.  Pettifer  busied  herself  with  rousing  the 
kitchen  fire,  which  was  kept  in  under  a  huge  “  raker  ”  —  a  pos¬ 
sibility  by  which  the  coal  of  the  midland  counties  atones  for 
all  its  slowness  and  white  ashes. 

When  she  carried  up  the  tea,  Janet  was  lying  quite  still ; 
the  spasmodic  agitation  had  ceased,  and  she  seemed  lost  in 
thought ;  her  eyes  were  fixed  vacantly  on  the  rushlight  shade, 
and  all  the  lines  of  sorrow  were  deepened  in  her  face. 

“Now,  my  dear,”  said  Mrs.  Pettifer,  “let  me  persuade  you 
to  drink  a  cup  of  tea;  you’ll  find  it  warm  you  and  soothe  you 
very  muoh.  Why,  dear  heart,  your  feet  are  like  ice  still.  Now, 
do  drink  this  tea,  and  I  ’ll  wrap  ’em  up  in  flannel,  and  then 
they  ’ll  get  warm.” 

Janet  turned  her  dark  eyes  on  her  old  friend  and  stretched 
out  her  arms.  She  was  too  much  oppressed  to  say  anything; 
her  suffering  lay  like  a  heavy  weight  on  her  power  of  speech ; 
but  she  wanted  to  kiss  the  good  kind  woman.  Mrs.  Pettifer, 
setting  down  the  cup,  bent  towards  the  sad  beautiful  face,  and 
Janet  kissed  her  with  earnest  sacramental  kisses  — such  kisses 
as  seal  a  new  and  closer  bond  between  the  helper  and  the 
helped. 

She  drank  the  tea  obediently.  “  It  does  warm  me,”  she  said. 
“But  now  you  will  get  into  bed.  I  shall  lie  still  now.” 

Mrs.  Pettifer  felt  it  was  the  best  thing  she  could  do  to  lie 
down  quietly  and  say  no  more.  She  hoped  Janet  might  go  to 
sleep.  As  for  herself,  with  that  tendency  to  wakefulness 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


329 


common  to  advanced  years,  she  found  it  impossible  to  compose 
herself  to  sleep  again  after  this  agitating  surprise.  She  lay 
listening  to  the  clock,  wondering  what  had  led  to  this  new 
outrage  of  Dempster’s,  praying  for  the  poor  thing  at  her  side, 
and  pitying  the  mother  who  would  have  to  hear  it  all  to¬ 
morrow. 


♦ 


CHAPTER  XVL 

Janet  lay  still,  as  she  had  promised;  but  the  tea,  which 
had  warmed  her  and  given  her  a  sense  of  greater  bodily  ease, 
had  only  heightened  the  previous  excitement  of  her  brain. 
Her  ideas  had  a  new  vividness,  which  made  her  feel  as  if  she 
had  only  seen  life  through  a  dim  haze  before ;  her  thoughts, 
instead  of  springing  from  the  action  of  her  own  mind,  were 
external  existences,  that  thrust  themselves  imperiously  upon 
her  like  haunting  visions.  The  future  took  shape  after  shape 
of  misery  before  her,  always  ending  in  her  being  dragged  back 
again  to  her  old  life  of  terror,  and  stupor,  and  fevered  despair. 
Her  husband  had  so  long  overshadowed  her  life  that  her 
imagination  could  not  keep  hold  of  a  condition  in  which  that 
great  dread  was  absent ;  and  even  his  absence  — what  was  it  ? 
only  a  dreary  vacant  flat,  where  there  was  nothing  to  strive 
after,  nothing  to  long  for 

At  last  the  light  of  morning  quenched  the  rushlight,  and 
Janet’s  thoughts  became  more  and  more  fragmentary  and  con¬ 
fused.  She  was  every  moment  slipping  off  the  level  on  which 
she  lay  thinking,  down,  down  into  some  depth  from  which  she 
tried  to  rise  again  with  a  start.  Slumber  was  stealing  over 
her  weary  brain :  that  uneasy  slumber  which  is  only  better 
than  wretched  waking,  because  the  life  we  seemed  to  live  in 
it  determines  no  wretched  future,  because  the  things  we  do 
and  suffer  in  it  are  but  hateful  shadows,  and  leave  no  impress 
that  petrifies  into  an  irrevocable  past. 


330 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


She  had  scarcely  been  asleep  an  hour  when  her  movements 
became  more  violent,  her  mutterings  more  frequent  and  agi¬ 
tated,  till  at  last  she  started  up  with  a  smothered  cry,  and 
looked  wildly  round  her,  shaking  with  terror. 

“  Don’t  be  frightened,  dear  Mrs.  Dempster,”  said  Mrs.  Petti- 
fer,  who  was  up  and  dressing;  “you  are  with  me,  your  old 
friend,  Mrs.  Pettifer.  Nothing  will  harm  you.” 

Janet  sank  back  again  on  her  pillow,  still  trembling.  After 
lying  silent  a  little  while,  she  said,  “  It  was  a  horrible  dream. 
Dear  Mrs.  Pettifer,  don’t  let  any  one  know  I  am  here.  Keep 
it  a  secret.  If  he  finds  out,  he  will  come  and  drag  me  back 
again.” 

“No,  my  dear,  depend  on  me.  I’ve  just  thought  I  shall 
send  the  servant  home  on  a  holiday  —  I ’ve  promised  her  a 
good  while.  I  ’ll  send  her  away  as  soon  as  she ’s  had  her 
breakfast,  and  she  ’ll  have  no  occasion  to  know  you  ’re  here. 
There ’s  no  holding  servants’  tongues,  if  you  let  ’em  know 
anything.  What  they  don’t  know,  they  won’t  tell ;  you  may 
trust  ’em  so  far.  But  should  n’t  you  like  me  to  go  and  fetch 
your  mother  ?  ” 

“  No,  not  yet,  not  yet.  I  can’t  bear  to  see  her  yet.” 

“Well,  it  shall  be  just  as  you  like.  Now  try  and  get  to 
sleep  again.  I  shall  leave  you  for  an  hour  or  two,  and  send 
off  Phoebe,  and  then  bring  you  some  breakfast.  I  ’ll  lock  the 
door  behind  me,  so  that  the  girl  may  n’t  come  in  by  chance.” 

The  daylight  changes  the  aspect  of  misery  to  us,  as  of 
everything  else.  In  the  night  it  presses  on  our  imagination 
—  the  forms  it  takes  are  false,  fitful,  exaggerated ;  in  broad 
day  it  sickens  our  sense  with  the  dreary  persistence  of  definite 
measurable  reality.  The  man  who  looks  with  ghastly  horror 
on  all  his  property  aflame  in  the  dead  of  night,  has  not  half 
the  sense  of  destitution  he  will  have  in  the  morning,  when  he 
walks  over  the  ruins  lying  blackened  in  the  pitiless  sunshine. 
That  moment  of  intensest  depression  was  come  to  Janet,  when 
the  daylight  which  showed  her  the  walls,  and  chairs,  and 
tables,  and  all  the  commonplace  reality  that  surrounded  her, 
seemed  to  lay  bare  the  future  too,  and  bring  out  into  oppres¬ 
sive  distinctness  all  the  details  of  a  weary  life  to  be  lived  from 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


331 

day  to  day,  with  no  hope  to  strengthen  her  against  that  evil 
habit,  which  she  loathed  in  retrospect  and  yet  was  powerless 
to  resist.  Her  husband  would  never  consent  to  her  living 
away  from  him :  she  was  become  necessary  to  his  tyranny ; 
he  would  never  willingly  loosen  his  grasp  on  her.  She  had  a 
7ague  notion  of  some  protection  the  law  might  give  her,  if  she 
could  prove  her  life  in  danger  from  him ;  but  she  shrank 
utterly,  as  she  had  always  done,  from  any  active,  public  re¬ 
sistance  or  vengeance:  she  felt  too  crushed,  too  faulty,  too 
liable  to  reproach,  to  have  the  courage,  even  if  she  had  had 
the  wish,  to  put  herself  openly  in  the  position  of  a  wronged 
woman  seeking  redress.  She  had  no  strength  to  sustain  her 
in  a  course  of  self-defence  and  independence :  there  was  a 
darker  shadow  over  her  life  than  the  dread  of  her  husband  — 
it  was  the  shadow  of  self-despair.  The  easiest  thing  would  be 
to  go  away  and  hide  herself  from  him.  But  then  th^re  was 
her  mother :  Robert  had  all  her  little  property  in  his  hands, 
and  that  little  was  scarcely  enough  to  keep  her  in  comfort 
without  his  aid.  If  Janet  wrent  away  alone  he  would  be  sure 
to  persecute  her  mother;  and  if  she  did  go  away  —  what  then? 
She  must  work  to  maintain  herself ;  she  must  exert  herself, 
weary  and  hopeless  as  she  was,  to  begin  life  afresh.  How 
hard  that  seemed  to  her!  Janet’s  nature  did  not  belie  her 
grand  face  and  form :  there  was  energy,  there  was  strength  in 
it ;  but  it  was  the  strength  of  the  vine,  which  must  have  its 
broad  leaves  and  rich  clusters  borne  up  by  a  firm  stay.  And 
now  she  had  nothing  to  rest  on  —  no  faith,  no  love.  If  her 
mother  had  been  very  feeble,  aged,  or  sickly,  Janet’s  deep  pity 
and  tenderness  might  have  made  a  daughter’s  duties  an  inter¬ 
est  and  a  solace;  but  Mrs.  Raynor  had  never  needed  tendance; 
she  had  always  been  giving  help  to  her  daughter;  she  had 
always  been  a  sort  of  humble  ministering  spirit ;  and  it  was 
one  of  Janet’s  pangs  of  memory,  that  instead  of  being  her 
mother’s  comfort,  she  had  been  her  mother’s  trial.  Every¬ 
where  the  same  sadness  !  Her  life  was  a  sun-dried,  barren 
tract,  where  there  was  no  shadow,  and  where  all  the  waters 
were  bitter. 

No  !  She  suddenly  thought  — and  the  thought  was  like  an 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


electric  shock — there  was  one  spot  in  her  memory  which 
seemed  to  promise  her  an  untried  spring,  where  the  waters 
might  be  sweet.  That  short  interview  with  Mr.  Tryan  had 
come  back  upon  her — his  voice,  his  words,  his  look,  which 
told  her  that  he  knew  sorrow.  His  words  had  implied  that 
he  thought  his  death  was  near,  yet  he  had  a  faith  which 
enabled  him  to  labor  —  enabled  him  to  give  comfort  to  others. 
That  look  of  his  came  back  on  her  with  a  vividness  greater 
than  it  had  had  for  her  in  reality  :  surely  he  knew  more  of 
the  secrets  of  sorrow  than  other  men ;  perhaps  he  had  some 
message  of  comfort,  different  from  the  feeble  words  she  had 
been  used  to  hear  from  others.  She  was  tired,  she  was  sick  of 
that  barren  exhortation  —  Do  right,  and  keep  a  clear  com 
science,  and  God  will  reward  you,  and  your  troubles  will  be 
easier  to  bear.  She  wanted  strength  to  do  right  —  she  wanted 
something  to  rely  on  besides  her  own  resolutions;  for  was 
not  the  path  behind  her  all  strewn  with  broken  resolutions  ? 
How  could  she  trust  in  new  ones  ?  She  had  often  heard  Mr. 
Tryan  laughed  at  for  being  fond  of  great  sinners.  She  began 
to  see  a  new  meaning  in  those  words  ;  he  would  perhaps  un¬ 
derstand  her  helplessness,  her  wants.  If  she  could  pour  out 
her  heart  to  him!  If  she  could  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
unlock  all  the  chambers  of  her  soul ! 

The  impulse  to  confession  almost  always  requires  the  pres¬ 
ence  of  a  fresh  ear  and  a  fresh  heart ;  and  in  our  moments  of 
spiritual  need,  the  man  to  whom  we  have  no  tie  but  our 
common  nature,  seems  nearer  to  us  than  mother,  brother,  or 
friend.  Our  daily  familiar  life  is  but  a  hiding  of  ourselves 
from  each  other  behind  a  screen  of  trivial  words  and  deeds, 
and  those  who  sit  with  us  at  the  same  hearth  are  often  the 
farthest  off  from  the  deep  human  soul  within  us,  full  of  un¬ 
spoken  evil  and  unacted  good. 

When  Mrs.  Pettifer  came  back  to  her,  turning  the  key  and 
opening  the  door  very  gently,  Janet,  instead  of  being  asleep, 
as  her  good  friend  had  hoped,  was  intensely  occupied  with 
her  new  thought.  She  longed  to  ask  Mrs.  Pettifer  if  she 
could  see  Mr.  Tryan  ;  but  she  was  arrested  by  doubts  and 
timidity.  He  might  not  feel  for  her  —  he  might  be  shocked  at 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


333 

her  confession  —  he  might  talk  to  her  of  doctrines  she  could 
not  understand  or  believe.  She  could  not  make  up  her  mind 
yet ;  but  she  was  too  restless  under  this  mental  struggle  to 
remain  in  bed. 

“Mrs.  Pettifer,”  she  said,  “I  can’t  lie  here  any  longer ;  I 
must  get  up.  Will  you  lend  me  some  clothes  ?  ” 

Wrapt  in  such  drapery  as  Mrs.  Pettifer  could  find  for  her 
tall  figure,  Janet  went  down  into  the  little  parlor,  and  tried 
to  take  some  of  the  breakfast  her  friend  had  prepared  for  her. 
But  her  effort  was  not  a  successful  one ;  her  cup  of  tea  and 
bit  of  toast  were  only  half  finished.  The  leaden  weight  of 
discouragement  pressed  upon  her  more  and  more  heavily. 
The  wind  had  fallen,  and  a  drizzling  rain  had  come  on ;  there 
was  no  prospect  from  Mrs.  Pettifer’s  parlor  but  a  blank  wall ; 
and  as  J anet  looked  out  at  the  window,  the  rain  and  the  smoke- 
blackened  bricks  seemed  to  blend  themselves  in  sickening 
identity  with  her  desolation  of  spirit  and  the  headachy  weari¬ 
ness  of  her  body. 

Mrs.  Pettifer  got  through  her  household  work  as  soon  as 
she  could,  and  sat  down  with  her  sewing,  hoping  that  Janet 
would  perhaps  be  able  to  talk  a  little  of  what  had  passed,  and 
find  some  relief  by  unbosoming  herself  in  that  way.  But 
Janet  could  not  speak  to  her;  she  was  importuned  with  the 
longing  to  see  Mr.  Tryan,  and  yet  hesitating  to  express  it. 

Two  hours  passed  in  this  way.  The  rain  went  on  drizzling, 
and  Janet  sat  still,  leaning  her  aching  head  on  her  hand,  and 
looking  alternately  at  the  fire  and  out  of  the  window.  She 
felt  this  could  not  last  —  this  motionless,  vacant  misery.  She 
must  determine  on  something,  she  must  take  some  step ;  and 
yet  everything  was  so  difficult. 

It  was  one  o’clock,  and  Mrs.  Pettifer  rose  from  her  seat, 
saying,  “I  must  go  and  see  about  dinner.” 

The  movement  and  the  sound  startled  Janet  from  her 
reverie.  It  seemed  as  if  an  opportunity  were  escaping  her, 
and  she  said  hastily,  “  Is  Mr.  Tryan  in  the  town  to-day,  do 
you  think  ?  ” 

“iNo,  I  should  think  not,  being  Saturday,  you  know,”  said 
Mrs.  Pettifer,  her  face  lighting  up  with  pleasure ;  “  but  he 


334 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


would  come,  if  he  was  sent  for.  I  can  send  Jesson’s  boy  with 
a  note  to  him  any  time.  Should  you  like  to  see  him  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  I  think  I  should.” 
u  Then  1 41  send  for  him  this  instant.” 


CHAPTER  XVH. 

When  Dempster  awoke  in  the  morning,  he  was  at  no  loss  fco 
account  to  himself  for  the  fact  that  Janet  was  not  by  his  side. 
His  hours  of  drunkenness  were  not  cut  off  from  his  other 
hours  by  any  blank  wall  of  oblivion ;  he  remembered  what 
Janet  had  done  to  offend  him  the  evening  before,  he  remem¬ 
bered  what  he  had  done  to  her  at  midnight,  just  as  he  would 
have  remembered  if  he  had  been  consulted  about  a  right  of 
road. 

The  remembrance  gave  him  a  definite  ground  for  the  extra 
ill-humor  which  had  attended  his  waking  every  morning  this 
week,  but  he  would  not  admit  to  himself  that  it  cost  him  any 
anxiety.  “Pooh,”  he  said  inwardly,  “she  would  go  straight  to 
her  mother’s.  She ’s  as  timid  as  a  hare  ;  and  she  ’ll  never  let 
anybody  know  about  it.  She  ’ll  be  back  again  before  night.” 

But  it  would  be  as  well  for  the  servants  not  to  know  any¬ 
thing  of  the  affair  :  so  he  collected  the  clothes  she  had  taken 
off  the  night  before,  and  threw  them  into  a  fire-proof  closet  of 
which  he  always  kept  the  key  in  his  pocket.  When  he  went 
down-stairs  he  said  to  the  housemaid,  “Mrs.  Dempster  is  gone 
to  her  mother’s ;  bring  in  the  breakfast.” 

The  servants,  accustomed  to  hear  domestic  broils,  and  to  see 
fcheir  mistress  put  on  her  bonnet  hastily  and  go  to  her  mother’s, 
thought  it  only  something  a  little  worse  than  usual  that  she 
should  have  gone  thither  in  consequence  of  a  violent  quarrel, 
either  at  midnight,  or  in  the  early  morning  before  they  were 
up.  The  housemaid  told  the  cook  what  she  supposed  had 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


335 


happened ;  the  cook  shook  her  head  and  said,  “  Eh,  dear, 
dear  !  ”  but  they  both  expected  to  see  their  mistress  back  again 
in  an  hour  or  two. 

Dempster,  on  his  return  home  the  evening  before,  had  or¬ 
dered  his  man,  who  lived  away  from  the  house,  to  bring  up  hia 
horse  and  gig  from  the  stables  at  ten.  After  breakfast  he  said 
to  the  housemaid,  “No  one  need  sit  up  for  me  to-night ;  I  shall 
not  be  at  home  till  to-morrow  evening ;  ”  and  then  he  walked 
to  the  office  to  give  some  orders,  expecting,  as  he  returned,  to 
see  the  man  waiting  with  his  gig.  But  though  the  church 
clock  had  struck  ten,  no  gig  was  there.  In  Dempster’s  mood 
ciiis  was  more  than  enough  to  exasperate  him.  He  went  in  to 
take  his  accustomed  glass  of  brandy  before  setting  out,  promis¬ 
ing  himself  the  satisfaction  of  presently  thundering  at  Dawes 
for  being  a  few  minutes  behind  his  time.  An  outbreak  oi 
temper  towards  his  man  was  not  common  with  him  ;  for  Demp¬ 
ster,  like  most  tyrannous  people,  had  that  dastardly  kind  ol 
self-restraint  which  enabled  him  to  control  his  temper  wherf 
it  suited  his  own  convenience  to  do  so ;  and  feeling  the  value 
of  Dawes,  a  steady  punctual  fellow,  he  not  only  gave  him  high 
wages,  but  usually  treated  him  with  exceptional  civility.  This 
morning,  however,  ill-humor  got  the  better  of  prudence,  and 
Dempster  was  determined  to  rate  him  soundly;  a  resolution 
for  which  Dawes  gave  him  much  better  ground  than  he  ex¬ 
pected.  Five  minutes,  ten  minutes,  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  had 
passed,  and  Dempster  was  setting  off  to  the  stables  in  a  back 
street  to  see  what  was  the  cause  of  the  delay,  when  Dawes 
appeared  with  the  gig. 

“What  the  devil  do  you  keep  me  here  for,”  thundered 
Dempster,  “kicking  my  heels  like  a  beggarly  tailor  waiting 
for  a  carrier’s  cart  ?  I  ordered  you  to  be  here  at  ten.  We 
might  have  driven  to  Whitlow  by  this  time.” 

“  Why,  one  o’  the  traces  was  welly  i’  two,  an’  I  had  to  take 
it  to  Brady’s  to  be  mended,  an’  he  did  n’t  get  it  done  i’  time.” 

“  Then  why  did  n’t  you  take  it  to  him  last  night  ?  Because 
of  your  damned  laziness,  I  suppose.  Do  you  think  I  give  you 
■wages  for  you  to  choose  your  own  hours,  and  come  dawdling 
up  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  my  time  ?  ” 


336 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


“  Come,  give  me  good  words,  will  yer  ?  ”  said  Dawes,  sulkily, 
“I’m  not  lazy,  nor  no  man  shall  call  me  lazy.  I  know  well 
anuff  what  you  gi’  me  wages  for  ;  it ’s  for  doin’  what  yer  won’t 
find  many  men  as  ’ull  do.” 

“What!  you  impudent  scoundrel,”  said  Dempster,  getting 
into  the  gig,  “you  think  you  ’re  necessary  to  me,  do  you  ? 
As  if  a  beastly  bucket-carrying  idiot  like  you  was  n’t  to  be  got 
any  day.  Look  out  for  a  new  master,  then,  who  ’ll  pay  you 
lor  not  doing  as  you  ’re  bid.” 

Dawes’s  blood  was  now  fairly  up.  “I’ll  look  out  for  a 
master  as  has  got  a  better  cliaricter  nor  a  lyin’,  bletherin’ 
drunkard,  an’  I  should  n’t  hev  to  go  fur.” 

Dempster,  furious,  snatched  the  whip  from  the  socket,  and 
gave  Dawes  a  cut  which  be  meant  to  fall  across  his  shoulders, 
saying,  “  Take  that,  sir,  and  go  to  hell  with  you  !  ” 

Dawes  was  in  the  act  of  turning  with  the  reins  in  his  hand 
when  the  lash  fell,  and  the  cut  went  across  his  face.  With 
white  lips,  he  said,  “  I  ’ll  have  the  law  on  yer  for  that,  lawyer 
as  y’  are,”  and  threw  the  reins  on  the  horse’s  back. 

Dempster  leaned  forward,  seized  the  reins,  and  drove  off. 

“Why,  there’s  your  friend  Dempster  driving  out  without 
his  man  again,”  said  Mr.  Luke  Byles,  who  was  chatting  with 
Mr.  Budd  in  the  Bridge  Way.  “  What  a  fool  he  is  to  drive 
that  two-wheeled  thing  !  he  ’ll  get  pitched  on  his  head  one  of 
these  days.” 

“Not  he,”  said  Mr.  Budd,  nodding  to  Dempster  as  he  passed ; 
“  he ’s  got  nine  lives,  Dempster  has.” 


CHAPTER  XYIIL 

It  was  dusk,  and  the  candles  were  lighted  before  Mr.  Tryan 
knocked  at  Mrs.  Pettifer’s  door.  Her  messenger  had  brought 
back  word  tnat  he  was  not  at  home,  and  all  afternoon  Janet 
had  been  agitated  by  the  fear  that  he  would  not  come  ;  but  as 


837 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE. 

soon  as  that  anxiety  was  removed  by  the  knock  at  the  door, 
she  felt  a  sudden  rush  of  doubt  and  timidity :  she  trembled 
and  turned  cold. 

Mrs.  Pettifer  went  to  open  the  door,  and  told  Mr.  Tryan,  in 
as  few  words  as  possible,  what  had  happened  in  the  night. 
As  he  laid  down  his  hat  and  prepared  to  enter  the  parlor,  she 
said,  “  I  won’t  go  in  with  you,  for  I  think  perhaps  she  would 
rather  see  you  go  in  alone.” 

Janet,  wrapped  up  in  a  large  white  shawl  which  threw  her 
dark  face  into  startling  relief,  was  seated  with  her  eyes  turned 
anxiously  towards  the  door  when  Mr.  Try  an  entered.  He  had 
not  seen  her  since  their  interview  at  Sally  Martin’s  long 
months  ago ;  and  he  felt  a  strong  movement  of  compassion  at 
the  sight  of  the  pain-stricken  face  which  seemed  to  bear 
written  on  it  the  signs  of  all  Janet’s  intervening  misery.  Her 
heart  gave  a  great  leap,  as  her  eyes  met  his  once  more.  No  ! 
she  had  not  deceived  herself :  there  was  all  the  sincerity,  all 
the  sadness,  all  the  deep  pity  in  them  her  memory  had  told 
her  of  ;  more  than  it  had  told  her,  for  in  proportion  as  his  face 
had  become  thinner  and  more  worn,  his  eyes  appeared  to  have 
gathered  intensity. 

He  came  forward,  and,  putting  out  his  hand,  said,  "  I  am  so 
glad  you  sent  for  me  —  I  am  so  thankful  you  thought  I  could 
be  any  comfort  to  you.”  Janet  took  his  hand  in  silence.  She 
was  unable  to  utter  any  words  of  mere  politeness,  or  even  of 
gratitude;  her  heart  was  too  full  of  other  words  that  had 
welled  up  the  moment  she  met  his  pitying  glance,  and  felt  her 
doubts  fall  away. 

They  sat  down  opposite  each  other,  and  she  said  in  a  low 
voice,  while  slow  difficult  tears  gathered  in  her  aching  eyes  — 

“  I  want  to  tell  you  how  unhappy  I  am  —  how  weak  and 
wicked.  I  feel  no  strength  to  live  or  die.  I  thought  you 
could  tell  me  something  that  would  help  me,”  She  paused. 

“  Perhaps  I  can,”  Mr.  Tryan  said,  “  for  in  speaking  to  me 
you  are  speaking  to  a  fellow-sinner  who  has  needed  just  the 
comfort  and  help  you  are  needing.” 

“And  you  did  find  it  ?  ” 

“  Yes  ;  and  I  trust  you  will  find  it.* 

22 


VOL.  IV, 


338 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


“  Oh,  I  should  like  to  be  good  and  to  do  right,”  Janet  burst 
/orth;  “but  indeed,  indeed,  my  lot  has  been  a  very  hard  one. 
I  loved  my  husband  very  dearly  when  we  were  married,  and  I 
meant  to  make  him  happy  —  I  wanted  nothing  else.  But  he 
began  to  be  angry  with  me  for  little  things  and  ...  I  don’t 
want  to  accuse  him  .  .  .  but  he  drank  and  got  more  and  more 
unkind  to  me,  and  then  very  cruel,  and  he  beat  me.  And  that 
cut  me  to  the  heart.  It  made  me  almost  mad  sometimes  to 
think  all  our  love  had  come  to  that  .  .  .  I  could  n’t  bear  up 
against  it.  I  had  never  been  used  to  drink  anything  but  water. 
I  hated  wine  and  spirits  because  Robert  drank  them  so  ;  but 
one  day  when  I  was  very  wretched,  and  the  wine  was  standing 
on  the  table,  I  suddenly  ...  I  can  hardly  remember  how  I 
came  to  do  it  ...  I  poured  some  wine  into  a  large  glass  and 
drank  it.  It  blunted  my  feelings,  and  made  me  more  indiffer¬ 
ent.  After  that,  the  temptation  was  always  coming,  and  it  got 
stronger  and  stronger.  I  was  ashamed,  and  I  hated  what  I  did ; 
but  almost  while  the  thought  was  passing  through  my  mind 
that  I  would  never  do  it  again,  I  did  it.  It  seemed  as  if  there 
was  a  demon  in  me  always  making  me  rush  to  do  what  I  longed 
iiot  to  do.  And  I  thought  all  the  more  that  God  was  cruel ; 
for  if  He  had  not  sent  me  that  dreadful  trial,  so  much  worse 
than  other  women  have  to  bear,  I  should  not  have  done  wrong 
in  that  way.  I  suppose  it  is  wicked  to  think  so  ...  I  feel  as 
if  there  must  be  goodness  and  right  above  us,  but  I  can’t  see 
it,  I  can’t  trust  in  it.  And  I  have  gone  on  in  that  way  for 
years  and  years.  At  one  time  it  used  to  be  better  now  and 
then,  but  everything  has  got  worse  lately  :  I  felt  sure  it  must 
soon  end  somehow.  And  last  night  he  turned  me  out  of  doors 
*  .  .  I  don’t  know  what  to  do.  I  will  never  go  back  to  that 
life  again  if  I  can  help  it;  and  yet  everything  else  seems  so 
miserable.  I  feel  sure  that  demon  will  be  always  urging  me 
to  satisfy  the  craving  that  comes  upon  me,  and  the  days  will 
go  on  as  they  have  done  through  all  those  miserable  years. 
I  shall  always  be  doing  wrong,  and  hating  myself  after  — 
sinking  lower  and  lower,  and  knowing  that  I  am  sinking. 
Oh,  can  you  tell  me  any  way  of  getting  strength  ?  Have 
you  ever  known  any  one  like  me  that  got  peace  of  mind  and 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


339 


power  to  do  right  ?  Can  you  give  me  any  comfort  —  any 

hope  ?  ” 

While  Janet  was  speaking,  she  had  forgotten  everything  but 
her  misery  and  her  yearning  for  comfort.  Her  voice  had  risen 
from  the  low  tone  of  timid  distress  to  an  intense  pitch  of 
imploring  anguish.  She  clasped  her  hands  tightly,  and  looked 
at  Mr.  Tryan  with  eager  questioning  eyes,  with  parted  trem¬ 
bling  lips,  with  the  deep  horizontal  lines  of  overmastering 
pain  on  her  brow.  In  this  artificial  life  of  ours,  it  is  not  often 
we  see  a  human  face  with  all  a  heart’s  agony  in  it,  uncontrolled 
by  self-consciousness  ;  when  we  do  see  it,  it  startles  us  as  if 
we  had  suddenly  waked  into  the  real  world  of  which  this 
every-day  one  is  but  a  puppet-show  copy.  For  some  moments 
Mr.  Tryan  was  too  deeply  moved  to  speak. 

“  Yes,  dear  Mrs.  Dempster,”  he  said  at  last,  “  there  is  com¬ 
fort,  there  is  hope  for  you.  Believe  me  there  is,  for  I  speak 
from  my  own  deep  and  hard  experience.”  He  paused,  as  if 
he  had  not  made  up  his  mind  to  utter  the  words  that  were 
urging  themselves  to  his  lips.  Presently  he  continued,  “  Ter 
years  ago,  I  felt  as  wretched  as  you  do.  I  think  my  wretched 
ness  was  even  worse  than  yours,  for  I  had  a  heavier  sin  on 
my  conscience.  I  had  suffered  no  wrong  from  others  as  you 
have,  and  I  had  injured  another  irreparably  in  body  and  soul. 
The  image  of  the  wrong  I  had  done  pursued  me  everywhere, 
and  I  seemed  on  the  brink  of  madness.  I  hated  my  life,  for 
I  thought,  just  as  you  do,  that  I  should  go  on  falling  into 
temptation  and  doing  more  harm  in  the  world  ;  and  I  dreaded 
death,  for  with  that  sense  of  guilt  on  my  soul,  I  felt  that 
whatever  state  I  entered  on  must  be  one  of  misery.  But  a 
dear  friend  to  whom  I  opened  my  mind  showed  me  it  was 
just  such  as  I  —  the  helpless  who  feel  themselves  helpless  — 
chat  God  specially  invites  to  come  to  him,  and  offers  all  the 
riches  of  his  salvation  :  not  forgiveness  only ;  forgiveness 
would  be  worth  little  if  it  left  us  under  the  powers  of  our  evil 
passions;  but  strength  —  that  strength  which  enables  us  to 
conquer  sin.” 

“  But,”  said  Janet,  “I  can  feel  no  trust  in  God.  He  seems 
always  to  have  left  me  to  myself.  I  have  sometimes  prayed 


340 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


to  him  to  help  me,  and  yet  everything  has  been  just  the  sam© 
as  before.  If  you  felt  like  me,  how  did  you  come  to  have 
hope  and  trust  ?  ” 

“  Do  not  believe  that  God  has  left  you  to  yourself.  How 
can  you  tell  but  that  the  hardest  trials  you  have  known  have 
been  only  the  road  by  which  he  was  leading  you  to  that  com¬ 
plete  sense  of  your  own  sin  and  helplessness,  without  which 
you  would  never  have  renounced  all  other  hopes,  and  trusted 
in  his  love  alone  ?  I  know,  dear  Mrs.  Dempster,  I  know  it  is 
hard  to  bear.  I  would  not  speak  lightly  of  your  sorrows.  I 
feel  that  the  mystery  of  our  life  is  great,  and  at  one  time  it 
seemed  as  dark  to  me  as  it  does  to  you.”  Mr.  Tryan  hesitated 
again.  He  saw  that  the  first  thing  Janet  needed  was  to  be 
assured  of  sympathy.  She  must  be  made  to  feel  that  her 
anguish  was  not  strange  to  him ;  that  he  entered  into  the 
only  half-expressed  secrets  of  her  spiritual  weakness,  before 
any  other  message  of  consolation  could  find  its  way  to  her 
heart.  The  tale  of  the  Divine  Pity  was  never  yet  believed 
from  lips  that  were  not  felt  to  be  moved  by  human  pity, 
^vnd  Janet’s  anguish  was  not  strange  to  Mr.  Tryan.  He  had 
never  been  in  the  presence  of  a  sorrow  and  a  self-despair  tha« 
had  sent  so  strong  a  thrill  through  all  the  recesses  of  his  sad¬ 
dest  experience  ;  and  it  is  because  sympathy  is  but  a  living 
again  through  our  own  past  in  a  new  form,  that  confession 
often  prompts  a  response  of  confession.  Mr.  Tryan  felt  this 
prompting,  and  his  judgment,  too,  told  him  that  in  obeying  it 
he  would  be  taking  the  best  means  of  administering  comfort 
to  Janet.  Yet  he  hesitated  ;  as  we  tremble  to  let  in  the  day¬ 
light  on  a  chamber  of  relics  which  we  have  never  visited 
except  in  curtained  silence.  But  the  first  impulse  triumphed, 
and  he  went  on.  “  I  had  lived  all  my  life  at  a  distance  from 
God.  My  youth  was  spent  in  thoughtless  self-indulgence,  and 
all  my  hopes  were  of  a  vain  worldly  kind.  I  had  no  thought 
of  entering  the  Church ;  I  looked  forward  to  a  political  career, 
for  my  father  was  private  secretary  to  a  man  high  in  the 
Whig  Ministry,  and  had  been  promised  strong  interest  in  my 
behalf.  At  college  I  lived  in  intimacy  with  the  gayest  men, 
even  adopting  follies  and  vices  for  which  I  had  no  taste,  out 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


Ml 


of  mere  pliancy  and  the  love  of  standing  well  with  my  corn- 
panions.  You  see,  I  was  more  guilty  even  then  than  you  have 
been,  for  I  threw  away  all  the  rich  blessings  of  untroubled 
youth  and  health  ;  I  had  no  excuse  in  my  outward  lot.  But 
while  I  was  at  college  that  event  in  my  life  occurred,  which 
in  the  end  brought  on  the  state  of  mind  I  have  mentioned  to 
you  —  the  state  of  self-reproach  and  despair,  which  enables 
me  to  understand  to  the  full  what  you  are  suffering ;  and  I 
tell  you  the  facts,  because  I  want  you  to  be  assured  that  I  am 
not  uttering  mere  vague  words  when  I  say  that  I  have  been 
raised  from  as  low  a  depth  of  sin  and  sorrow  as  that  in  which 
you  feel  yourself  to  be.  At  college  I  had  an  attachment  to 
a  lovely  girl  of  seventeen  ;  she  was  very  much  below  my  own 
station  in  life,  and  I  never  contemplated  marrying  her ;  but 
I  induced  her  to  leave  her  father’s  house.  I  did  not  mean  to 
forsake  her  when  I  left  college,  and  I  quieted  all  scruples  of 
conscience  by  promising  myself  that  I  would  always  take  care 
of  poor  Lucy.  But  on  my  return  from  a  vacation  spent  in 
travelling,  I  found  that  Lucy  was  gone  —  gone  away  with  a 
gentleman,  her  neighbors  said.  I  was  a  good  deal  distressed, 
but  I  tried  to  persuade  myself  that  no  harm  would  come  to 
her.  Soon  afterwards  I  had  an  illness  which  left  my  health 
delicate,  and  made  all  dissipation  distasteful  to  me.  Life 
seemed  very  wearisome  and  empty,  and  I  looked  with  envy 
on  every  one  who  had  some  great  and  absorbing  object — even 
on  my  cousin  who  was  preparing  to  go  out  as  a  missionary, 
and  whom  I  had  been  used  to  think  a  dismal,  tedious  person, 
because  he  was  constantly  urging  religious  subjects  upon  me. 
We  were  living  in  London  then  ;  it  was  three  years  since  I 
had  lost  sight  of  Lucy  ;  and  one  summer  evening,  about  nine 
o’clock,  as  I  was  walking  along  Gower  Street,  I  saw  a  knot  of 
people  on  the  causeway  before  me.  As  I  came  up  to  them, 
I  heard  one  woman  say,  ‘  I  tell  you  she  is  dead.’  This  awak¬ 
ened  my  interest,  and  I  pushed  my  way  within  the  circle. 
The  body  of  a  woman,  dressed  in  fine  clothes,  was  lying 
against  a  door-step.  Her  head  was  bent  on  one  side,  and  the 
long  curls  had  fallen  over  her  cheek.  A  tremor  seized  me  when 
[  saw  the  hair:  it  was  light  chestnut  —  the  color  of  Lucy’s- 


342 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


I  knelt  down  and  turned  aside  the  hair  ;  it  was  Lucy _ dead 

—  with  paint  on  her  cheeks.  I  found  out  afterwards  that  she 
had  taken  poison  —  that  she  was  in  the  power  of  a  wicked 
woman  —  that  the  very  clothes  on  her  back  were  not  her  own. 
It  was  then  that  my  past  life  burst  upon  me  in  all  its  hideous¬ 
ness.  I  wished  I  had  never  been  born.  I  could  n’t  look  into 
the  future.  Lucy’s  dead  painted  face  would  follow  me  there, 
as  it  did  when  I  looked  back  into  the  past  —  as  it  did  when  I 
sat  down  to  table  with  my  friends,  when  I  lay  down  in  my 
bed,  and  when  I  rose  up.  There  was  only  one  thing  that 
could  make  life  tolerable  to  me ;  that  was,  to  spend  all  the 
rest  of  it  in  trying  to  save  others  from  the  ruin  I  had  brought 
on  one.  But  how  was  that  possible  for  me  ?  I  had  no  com¬ 
fort,  no  strength,  no  wisdom  in  my  own  soul ;  how  could  I  give 
them  to  others  ?  My  mind  was  dark,  rebellious,  at  war  with 
itself  and  with  God.” 

Mr.  Tryan  had  been  looking  away  from  Janet.  His  face 
was  towards  the  fire,  and  he  was  absorbed  in  the  images  his 
memory  was  recalling.  But  now  he  turned  his  eyes  on  her, 
and  they  met  hers,  fixed  on  him  with  the  look  of  rapt  expecta¬ 
tion,  with  which  one  clinging  to  a  slippery  summit  of  rock, 
while  the  waves  are  rising  higher  and  higher,  watches  the  boat 
that  has  put  from  shore  to  his  rescue. 

“  You  see,  Mrs.  Dempster,  how  deep  my  need  was.  I  went 
on  in  this  way  for  months.  I  was  convinced  that  if  I  ever  got 
health  and  comfort,  it  must  be  from  religion.  I  went  to  hear 
celebrated  preachers,  and  I  read  religious  books.  But  I  found 
nothing  that  fitted  my  own  need.  The  faith  which  puts  the 
sinner  in  possession  of  salvation  seemed,  as  I  understood 
it,  to  be  quite  out  of  my  reach.  I  had  no  faith ;  I  only  felt 
utterly  wretched,  under  the  power  of  habits  and  dispositions 
which  had  wrought  hideous  evil.  At  last,  as  I  told  you,  I 
found  a  friend  to  whom  I  opened  all  my  feelings — to  whom 
I  confessed  everything.  He  was  a  man  who  had  gone  through 
very  deep  experience,  and  could  understand  the  different  wants 
of  different  minds.  He  made  it  clear  to  me  that  the  only  prep¬ 
aration  for  coming  to  Christ  and  partaking  of  his  salvation, 
was  that  very  sense  of  guilt  and  helplessness  which  was  weigh 


343 


lANET’S  REPENTANCE. 

ing  me  down.  He  said,  You  are  weary  and  heavy-laden  ;  well, 
it  is  you  Christ  invites  to  come  to  him  and  find  rest.  He  asks 
you  to  cling  to  him,  to  lean  on  him  ;  he  does  not  command  you 
to  walk  alone  without  stumbling.  He  does  not  tell  you,  as 
your  fellow-men  do,  that  you  must  first  merit  his  love ;  he 
neither  condemns  nor  reproaches  you  for  the  past,  he  only  bids 
you  come  to  him  that  you  may  have  life  :  he  bids  you  stretch 
out  your  hands,  and  take  of  the  fulness  of  his  love.  You  have 
only  to  rest  on  him  as  a  child  rests  on  its  mother’s  arms,  and 
you  will  be  upborne  by  his  divine  strength.  That  is  what  is 
meant  by  faith.  Your  evil  habits,  you  feel,  are  too  strong  for 
you  ;  you  are  unable  to  wrestle  with  them ;  you  know  before¬ 
hand  you  shall  fall.  But  when  once  we  feel  our  helplessness 
in  that  way,  and  go  to  the  Saviour,  desiring  to  be  freed  from 
the  power  as  well  as  the  punishment  of  sin,  we  are  no  longer 
left  to  our  own  strength.  As  long  as  we  live  in  rebellion 
against  God,  desiring  to  have  our  own  will,  seeking  happiness 
in  the  things  of  this  world,  it  is  as  if  we  shut  ourselves  up  in 
a  crowded  stilling  room,  where  we  breathe  only  poisoned  air; 
but  we  have  only  to  walk  out  under  the  infinite  heavens,  and 
we  breathe  the  pure  free  air  that  gives  us  health,  and  strength, 
and  gladness.  It  is  just  so  with  God’s  spirit :  as  soon  as  we 
submit  ourselves  to  his  will,  as  soon  as  we  desire  to  be  united 
to  him,  and  made  pure  and  holy,  it  is  as  if  the  walls  had  fallen 
down  that  shut  us  out  from  God,  and  we  are  fed  with  his  spirit, 
which  gives  us  new  strength.” 

“That  is  what  I  want,”  said  Janet ;  “I  have  left  off  minding 
about  pleasure.  I  think  I  could  be  contented  in  the  midst  of 
hardship,  if  I  felt  that  God  cared  for  me,  and  would  give  me 
strength  to  lead  a  pure  life.  But  tell  me,  did  you  soon  find 
peace  and  strength  ?  ” 

“Not  perfect  peace  for  a  long  while,  but  hope  and  trust, 
which  is  strength.  No  sense  of  pardon  for  myself  could  do 
away  with  the  pain  I  had  in  thinking  what  I  had  helped  to  bring 
on  another.  My  friend  used  to  urge  upon  me  that  my  sin 
against  God  was  greater  than  my  sin  against  her ;  but  —  it  may 
be  from  want  of  deeper  spiritual  feeling  —  that  has  remained 
to  this  hour  the  sin  which  causes  me  the  bitterest  pang.  I 


344 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


could  never  rescue  Lucy ;  but  by  God’s  blessing  I  might  rescue 
other  weak  and  falling  souls  ;  and  that  was  why  I  entered  the 
Church,  I  asked  for  nothing  through  the  rest  of  my  life  but 
that  I  might  be  devoted  to  God’s  work,  without  swerving  in 
search  of  pleasure  either  to  the  right  hand  or  to  the  left.  It 
has  been  often  a  hard  struggle  —  but  God  has  been  with  me  — 
and  perhaps  it  may  not  last  much  longer.” 

Mr.  Tryan  paused.  For  a  moment  he  had  forgotten  Janet, 
and  for  a  moment  she  had  forgotten  her  own  sorrows.  When 
she  recurred  to  herself,  it  was  with  a  new  feeling. 

u  Ah,  what  a  difference  between  our  lives !  you  have  been 
choosing  pain,  and  working,  and  denying  yourself;  and  I  have 
been  thinking  only  of  myself,  I  was  only  angry  and  dis¬ 
contented  because  I  had  pain  to  bear.  You  never  had  that 
wicked  feeling  that  I  have  had  so  often,  did  you  ?  that  God 
was  cruel  to  send  me  trials  and  temptations  worse  than  others 
have.” 

“Yes,  I  had  ;  I  had  very  blasphemous  thoughts,  and  I  know 
that  spirit  of  rebellion  must  have  made  the  worst  part  of  your 
lot.  You  did  not  feel  how  impossible  it  is  for  us  to  judge 
rightly  of  God’s  dealings,  and  you  opposed  yourself  to  his  will. 
But  what  do  we  know  ?  "We  cannot  foretell  the  working  of 
the  smallest  event  in  our  own  lot ;  how  can  we  presume  to 
judge  of  things  that  are  so  much  too  high  for  us  ?  There  is 
nothing  that  becomes  us  but  entire  submission,  perfect  resig¬ 
nation.  As  long  as  we  set  up  our  own  will  and  our  own  wis¬ 
dom  against  God’s,  we  make  that  wall  between  us  and  his  love 
which  I  have  spoken  of  just  now.  But  as  soon  as  we  lay  our¬ 
selves  entirely  at  his  feet,  we  have  enough  light  given  us  to 
guide  our  own  steps ;  as  the  foot-soldier  who  hears  nothing 
of  the  councils  that  determine  the  course  of  the  great  battle 
he  is  in,  hears  plainly  enough  the  word  of  command  which 
he  must  himself  obey.  I  know,  dear  Mrs.  Dempster,  I  know 
it  is  hard  the  hardest  thing  of  all,  perhaps  —  to  flesh  and 
blood.  But  carry  that  difficulty  to  the  Saviour  along  with  all 
your  other  sins  and  weaknesses,  and  ask  him  to  pour  into 
you  a  spirit  of  submission.  He  enters  into  your  struggles ; 
he  has  drunk  the  cup  of  our  suffering  to  the  dregs ;  he  knows 


JANET  S  REPENTANCE.  345 

the  hard  wrestling  it  costs  us  to  say,  ‘  Not  my  will,  but  Thine 
be  done.’  ” 

“  Pray  with  me,”  said  Janet —  “pray  now  that  I  may  have 
light  and  strength.” 


CHAPTER  XDL 

Before  leaving  Janet,  Mr.  Tryan  urged  her  strongly  to  send 
for  her  mother. 

“Do  not  wound  her,’7  he  said,  “by  shutting  her  out  any 
longer  from  your  troubles.  It  is  right  that  you  should  be  with 
her.” 

“  Yes,  I  wrill  send  for  her,”  said  Janet.  “  But  I  would  rather 
not  go  to  my  mother’s  yet,  because  my  husband  is  sure  to  think 
I  am  there,  and  he  might  come  and  fetch  me.  I  can’t  go  back 
to  him  ...  at  least,  not  yet.  Ought  I  to  go  back  to  him  ?” 

“No,  certainly  not,  at  present.  Something  should  be 
done  to  secure  you  from  violence.  Your  mother,  I  think, 
should  consult  some  confidential  friend,  some  man  of  charac¬ 
ter  and  experience,  who  might  mediate  between  you  and  your 
husband.” 

“Yes,  I  will  send  for  my  mother  directly.  But  I  will  stay 
here,  with  Mrs.  Pettifer,  till  something  has  been  done.  I  want 
no  one  to  know  where  I  am,  except  you.  You  will  come  again, 
will  you  not  ?  you  will  not  leave  me  to  myself  ?  ” 

“  You  will  not  be  left  to  yourself.  God  is  with  you.  If  I 
have  been  able  to  give  you  any  comfort,  it  is  because  his 
power  and  love  have  been  present  with  us.  But  I  am  very 
thankful  that  he  has  chosen  to  work  through  me.  I  shall 
see  you  again  to-morrow  — •  not  before  evening,  for  it  will  be 
Sunday,  you  know ;  but  after  the  evening  lecture  I  shall  be  at 
liberty.  You  will  be  in  my  prayers  till  then.  In  the  mean¬ 
time,  dear  Mrs.  Dempster,  open  your  heart  as  much  as  you  can 
to  your  mother  and  Mrs.  Pettifer.  Cast  away  from  you  the 


346 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


pride  that  makes  us  shrink  from  acknowledging  our  weakness 
to  our  friends.  Ask  them  to  help  you  in  guarding  yourself 
from  the  least  approach  of  the  sin  you  most  dread.  Deprive 
yourself  as  far  as  possible  of  the  very  means  and  opportunity 
of  committing  it.  Every  effort  of  that  kind  made  in  humility 
and  dependence  is  a  prayer.  Promise  me  you  will  do  this.” 

“  Yes,  I  promise  you.  I  know  I  have  always  been  too  proud  ; 
I  could  never  bear  to  speak  to  any  one  about  myself.  I  have 
been  proud  towards  my  mother,  even  ;  it  has  always  made  me 
angry  when  she  has  seemed  to  take  notice  of  my  faults.” 

“  Ah,  dear  Mrs.  Dempster,  you  will  never  say  again  that  life 
is  blank,  and  that  there  is  nothing  to  live  for,  will  you  ?  See 
what  work  there  is  to  be  done  in  life,  both  in  our  own  souls 
and  for  others.  Surely  it  matters  little  whether  we  have  more 
or  less  of  this  world’s  comfort  in  these  short  years,  when  God 
is  training  us  for  the  eternal  enjoyment  of  his  love.  Keep 
that  great  end  of  life  before  you,  and  your  troubles  here  will 
seem  only  the  small  hardships  of  a  journey.  Now  I  must 
go.” 

Mr.  Tryan  rose  and  held  out  his  hand.  Janet  took  it  and 
said,  “  God  has  been  very  good  to  me  in  sending  you  to  me.  I 
will  trust  in  him.  I  will  try  to  do  everything  you  tell  me.” 

Blessed  influence  of  one  true  loving  human  soul  on  another ! 
Not  calculable  by  algebra,  not  deducible  by  logic,  but  myste¬ 
rious,  effectual,  mighty  as  the  hidden  process  by  which  the  tiny 
seed  is  quickened,  and  bursts  forth  into  tall  stem  and  broad 
leaf,  and  glowing  tasselled  flower.  Ideas  are  often  poor  ghosts ; 
our  sun-filled  eyes  cannot  discern  them  ;  they  pass  athwart  us 
in  thin  vapor,  and  cannot  make  themselves  felt.  But  some¬ 
times  they  are  made  flesh ;  they  breathe  upon  us  with  warm 
breath,  they  touch  us  with  soft  responsive  hands,  they  look  at 
us  with  sad  sincere  eyes,  and  speak  to  us  in  appealing  tones ; 
they  are  clothed  in  a  living  human  soul,  with  all  its  conflicts, 
its  faith,  and  its  love.  Then  their  presence  is  a  power,  then 
they  shake  us  like  a  passion,  and  we  are  drawn  after  them 
with  gentle  compulsion,  as  flame  is  drawn  to  flame. 

Janet’s  dark  grand  face,  still  fatigued,  had  become  quite 
calm,  and  looked  up,  as  she  sat,  with  a  humble  childlike  ex* 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


347 


pression  at  the  thin  blond  face  and  slightly  sunken  gray  eyes 
which  now  shone  with  hectic  brightness.  She  might  have 
been  taken  for  an  image  of  passionate  strength  beaten  and 
worn  with  conflict ;  and  he  for  an  image  of  the  self-renounc- 
ing  faith  which  has  soothed  that  conflict  into  rest.  As  he 
looked  at  the  sweet  submissive  face,  he  remembered  its  look 
of  despairing  anguish,  and  his  heart  was  very  full  as  he  turned 
away  from  her.  “  Let  me  only  live  to  see  this  work  confirmed, 
and  then  —  ” 

It  was  nearly  ten  o’clock  when  Mr.  Try  an  left,  bu  Janet 
was  bent  on  sending  for  her  mother  ;  so  Mrs.  Pettifer,  as  the 
readiest  plan,  put  on  her  bonnet  and  went  herself  to  fetch 
Mrs.  Raynor.  The  mother  had  been  too  long  used  to  expect 
that  every  fresh  week  would  be  more  painful  than  the  last,  for 
Mrs.  Pettifer’s  news  to  come  upon  her  with  the  shock  of  a 
surprise.  Quietly,  without  any  show  of  distress,  she  made  up 
a  bundle  of  clothes,  and,  telling  her  little  maid  that  she  should 
not  return  home  that  night,  accompanied  Mrs.  Pettifer  back  in 
silence. 

When  they  entered  the  parlor,  Janet,  wearied  out,  had  sunk 
to  sleep  in  the  large  chair,  which  stood  with  it?,  back  to  the 
door.  The  noise  of  the  opening  door  disturbed  her,  and  she 
was  looking  round  wonderingly,  when  Mrs.  Raynor  came  up  to 
her  chair,  and  said,  “  It ’s  your  mother,  Janet.” 

“  W  )ther,  dear  mother !  ”  Janet  cried,  clasping  her  closely. 
“  I  have  not  been  a  good  tender  child  to  you,  but  I  will  be  — 
I  will  not  grieve  you  any  more.” 

The  calmness  which  had  withstood  a  new  sorrow  was  ore* 
come  by  a  new  joy,  and  the  mother  burst  into  tears. 


3^8 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  Elffre. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


On  Sunday  morning  the  rain  had  ceased,  and  Janet,  looking 
out  of  the  bedroom  window,  saw,  above  the  house-tops,  a  shin¬ 
ing  mass  of  white  cloud  rolling  under  the  far-away  blue  sky. 
It  was  going  to  be  a  lovely  April  day.  The  fresh  sky,  left  clear 
and  calm  after  the  long  vexation  of  wind  and  rain,  mingled  its 
mild  influence  with  Janet’s  new  thoughts  and  prospects.  She 
felt  a  buoyant  courage  that  surprised  herself,  after  the  cold 
crushing  weight  of  despondency  which  had  oppressed  her  the 
day  before :  she  could  think  even  of  her  husband’s  rage  with¬ 
out  the  old  overpowering  dread.  For  a  delicious  hope  —  the 
hope  of  purification  and  inward  peace — had  entered  into 
Janet's  soul,  and  made  it  spring-time  there  as  well  as  in  the 
outer  world. 

While  her  mother  was  brushing  and  coiling  up  her  thick 
black  hair  —  a  favorite  task,  because  it  seemed  to  renew  the 
days  of  her  daughter’s  girlhood  —  J anet  told  how  she  came  to 
send  for  Mr.  Tryan,  how  she  had  remembered  their  meeting 
at  Sally  Martin’s  in  the  autumn,  and  had  felt  an  irresistible 
desire  to  see  him,  and  tell  him  her  sins  and  her  troubles. 

“I  see  God’s  goodness  now,  mother,  in  ordering  it  so  that 
we  should  meet  in  that  way,  to  overcome  my  prejudice  against 
him,  and  make  me  feel  that  he  was  good,  and  then  bringing  it 
back  to  my  mind  in  the  depth  of  my  trouble.  You  know  what 
foolish  things  I  used  to  say  about  him,  knowing  nothing  of 
him  all  the  while.  And  yet  he  was  the  man  who  was  to  give 
mo  comfort  and  help  when  everything  else  failed  me.  It  is 
wonderful  how  I  feel  able  to  speak  to  him  as  I  never  have 
done  to  any  one  before ;  and  how  every  word  he  says  to  me 
enters  my  heart  and  has  a  new  meaning  for  me.  I  think  it 
must  be  because  he  has  felt  life  more  deeply  than  others,  and 
has  a  deeper  faith.  I  believe  everything  he  says  at  once. 
His  words  come  to  me  like  rain  on  the  parched  ground.  It 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


349 


has  always  seemed  to  me  before  as  if  I  could  see  behind 
people’s  words,  as  one  sees  behind  a  screen ;  but  in  Mr.  Try  an 
it  is  his  very  soul  that  speaks.” 

“Well,  my  dear  child,  I  love  and  bless  him  for  your  sake,  if 
he  has  given  you  any  comfort.  I  never  believed  the  harm 
people  said  of  him,  though  I  had  no  desire  to  go  and  hear 
him,  for  I  am  contented  with  old-fashioned  ways.  I  find  more 
good  teaching  than  I  can  practise  in  reading  my  Bible  at 
home,  and  hearing  Mr.  Crewe  at  church.  But  your  wants  are 
different,  my  dear,  and  we  are  not  all  led  by  the  same  road. 
That  was  certainly  good  advice  of  Mr.  Tryan’s  you  told  me  of 
last  night  —  that  we  should  consult  some  one  that  may  inter¬ 
fere  for  you  with  your  husband  ;  and  I  have  been  turning  it 
over  in  my  mind  while  I  ’ve  been  lying  awake  in  the  night.  I 
think  nobody  will  do  so  well  as  Mr.  Benjamin  Landor,  for 
we  must  have  a  man  that  knows  the  law,  and  that  Robert  is 
rather  afraid  of.  And  perhaps  he  could  bring  about  an  agree¬ 
ment  for  you  to  live  apart.  Your  husband ’s  bound  to  main¬ 
tain  you,  you  know ;  and,  if  you  liked,  we  could  move  away 
from  Milby  and  live  somewhere  else.” 

“  Oh,  mother,  we  must  do  nothing  yet ;  1  must  think  about 
it  a  little  longer.  I  have  a  different  feeling  this  morning 
from  what  I  had  yesterday.  Something  seems  to  tell  me 
that  I  must  go  back  to  Robert  some  time  —  after  a  little 
while.  I  loved  him  once  better  than  all  the  world,  and  I 
have  never  had  any  children  to  love.  There  were  things  in 
me  that  were  wrong,  and  I  should  like  to  make  up  for  them  if 
I  can.” 

“  Well,  my  dear,  I  won’t  persuade  you.  Think  of  it  a  little 
longer.  But  something  must  be  done  soon.” 

“  How  I  wish  I  had  my  bonnet,  and  shawl,  and  black  gown 
here !  ”  said  J anet,  after  a  few  minutes’  silence.  “  I  should 
like  to  go  to  Paddiford  Church  and  hear  Mr.  Tryan.  There 
would  be  no  fear  of  my  meeting  Robert,  for  he  never  goes  out 
on  a  Sunday  morning.” 

“  I ’m  afraid  it  would  not  do  for  me  to  go  to  the  house  and 
fetch  your  clothes,”  said  Mrs.  Raynor. 

“  Oh  no,  no  !  I  must  stay  quietly  here  while  you  two  go  to 


850 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


church,  i  will  be  Mrs.  Pettifer’s  maid,  and  get  the  dinner 
ready  for  her  by  the  time  she  comes  back.  Dear  good 
woman  !  She  was  so  tender  to  me  when  she  took  me  in,  in 
the  night,  mother,  and  all  the  next  day,  when  I  couldn’t 
speak  a  word  to  her  to  thank  her.” 


CHAPTER  XXL 

The  servants  at  Dempster’s  felt  some  surprise  when  the 
morning,  noon,  and  evening  of  Saturday  had  passed,  and  still 
their  mistress  did  not  reappear. 

“  It ’s  very  odd,”  said  Kitty,  the  housemaid,  as  she  trimmed 
her  next  week’s  cap,  while  Betty,  the  middle-aged  cook,  looked 
on  with  folded  arms.  “Do  you  think  as  Mrs.  Raynor  was 
ill,  and  sent  for  the  missis  afore  we  was  up  ?  ” 

“  Oh,”  said  Betty,  “  if  it  had  been  that,  she ’d  ha’  been 
back’ards  an’  for’ards  three  or  four  times  afore  now ;  least- 
ways,  she ’d  ha’  sent  little  Ann  to  let  us  know.” 

“There’s  summat  up  more  nor  usal  between  her  an’  the 
master,  that  you  may  depend  on,”  said  Kitty.  “  I  know  those 
clothes  as  was  lying  i’  the  drawing-room  yesterday,  when  the 
company  was  come,  meant  summat.  I  should  n’t  wonder  if 
that  was  what  they ’ve  had  a  fresh  row  about.  She ’s  p’raps 
gone  away,  an’s  made  up  her  mind  not  to  come  back  again.” 

“  An’  i’  the  right  on ’t,  too,”  said  Betty.  “  I ’d  ha’  overrun 
him  long  afore  now,  if  it  had  been  me.  I  would  n’t  stan’  bein’ 
mauled  as  she  is  by  no  husband,  not  if  he  was  the  biggest  lord 
i’  the  land.  It ’s  poor  work  bein’  a  wife  at  that  price  :  I ’d 
sooner  be  a  cook  wi’out  perkises,  an’  hev  roast,  an’  boil,  an’ 
fry,  an’  bake,  all  to  mind  at  once.  She  may  well  do  as  she 
does.  I  know  I ’m  glad  enough  of  a  drop  o’  summat  myself 
when  I ’m  plagued.  I  feel  very  low,  like,  to-night ;  I  think  I 
shall  put  my  beer  i’  the  saucepan  an’  warm  i£” 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE.  851 

“  What  a  one  you  are  for  warmin’  your  beer,  Petty !  I 
could  n’t  abide  it  —  nasty  bittbr  stuff !  ” 

“  It ’s  fine  talkin’ ;  if  you  was  a  cook  you ’d  know  what 
belongs  to  bein’  a  cook.  It ’s  none  so  nice  to  hev  a  sinkin’  at 
your  stomach,  I  can  tell  you.  You  would  n’t  think  so  much 
o’  fine  ribbins  i’  your  cap  then.” 

"Well,  well,  Betty,  don’t  be  grumpy.  Liza  Thomson,  as 
is  at  Phipps’s,  said  to  me  last  Sunday,  •'  I  wonder  you  ’ll  stay 
at  Dempster’s,’  she  says,  ‘  such  goins-on  as  there  is.’  But  I 
says, 1  There ’s  things  to  put  up  wi’  in  ivery  place,  an’  you  may 
change,  an’  change,  an’  not  better  yourself  when  all ’s  said  an’ 
done.’  Lors  !  why  Liza  told  me  herself  as  Mrs.  Phipps  was 
as  skinny  as  skinny  i’  the  kitchen,  for  all  they  keep  so  much 
company ;  and  as  for  follyers,  she ’s  as  cross  as  a  turkey-cock 
if  she  finds  ’em  out.  There ’s  nothin’  o’  that  sort  i’  the 
missis.  How  pretty  she  come  an’  spoke  to  Job  last  Sunday ! 
There  is  n’t  a  good-natur’der  woman  i’  the  world,  that ’s  my 
belief  —  an’  hansoine  too.  I  al’ys  think  there ’s  nobody  looks 
half  so  well  as  the  missis  when  she ’s  got  her  ’air  done  nice. 
Lors !  I  wish  I ’d  got  long  ’air  like  her  — -  my  ’air ’s  a-comin’ 
off  dreadful.” 

“  There  ’ll  be  fine  work  to-morrow,  I  expect,”  said  Betty, 
“when  the  master  comes  home,  an’  Dawes  a-swearin’  as  he’ll 
niver  do  a  stroke  o’  work  for  him  again.  It  ’ll  be  good  fun  if 
he  sets  the  justice  on  him  for  cuttin’  him  wi’  the  whip ;  the 
master  ’ll  p’raps  get  his  comb  cut  for  once  in  his  life  !  ” 

“Why,  he  was  in  a  temper  like  a  fi-end  this  morning,”  said 
Kitty.  “I  dare  say  it  was  along  o’  what  had  happened  wi’  the 
missis.  We  shall  hev  a  pretty  house  wi’  him  if  she  does  n’t 
come  back  —  he  ’ll  want  to  be  leatherin’  us,  I  should  n’t  wonder. 
He  must  hev  somethin’  t’  ill-use  when  he ’s  in  a  passion.” 

“  I ’d  tek  care  he  did  n’t  leather  me  —  no,  not  if  he  was  my 
husban’  ten  times  o’er ;  I ’d  pour  hot  drippin’  on  him  sooner. 
But  the  missis  hasn’t  a  sperrit  like  me.  He  ’ll  mek  her  come 
back,  you  ’ll  see ;  he  ’ll  come  round  her  somehow.  There ’s  no 
likelihood  of  her  coming  back  to-night,  though;  so  I  should 
think  we  might  fasten  the  doors  and  go  to  bed  when  we 
like.” 


852 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


On  Sunday  morning,  however,  Kitty’s  mind  became  dis¬ 
turbed  by  more  definite  and  alarming  conjectures  about  her 
mistress.  While  Betty,  encouraged  by  the  prospect  of  un¬ 
wonted  leisure,  was  sitting  down  to  continue  a  letter  which 
had  long  lain  unfinished  between  the  leaves  of  her  Bible, 
Kitty  came  running  into  the  kitchen,  and  said  — 

“  Lor !  Betty,  I  ’in  all  of  a  tremble ;  you  might  knock  me 
down  wi’  a  feather.  I ’ve  just  looked  into  the  missis’s  ward¬ 
robe,  an’  there ’s  both  her  bonnets.  She  must  ha’  gone  wi’out 
her  bonnet.  An’  then  I  remember  as  her  night-clothes  was  n’t 
on  the  bed  yesterday  mornin’ ;  I  thought  she ’d  put  ’em  away 
to  be  washed  ;  but  she  lied  n’t,  for  I ’ve  been  lookin’.  It’s  my 
belief  he ’s  murdered  her,  and  shut  her  up  i’  that  closet  as  he 
keeps  locked  al’ys.  He ’s  capible  on ’t.” 

“  Lors  ha’-massy  !  why,  you ’d  better  run  to  Mrs.  Raynor’s 
an’  see  if  she ’s  there,  arter  all.  It  was  p’raps  all  a  lie.” 

Mrs.  Raynor  had  returned  home  to  give  directions  to  her 
little  maiden,  when  Kitty,  with  the  elaborate  manifestation  of 
alarm  which  servants  delight  in,  rushed  in  without  knocking, 
and,  holding  her  hands  on  her  heart  as  if  the  consequences  to 
that  organ  were  likely  to  be  very  serious,  said  — 

“  If  you  please ’m,  is  the  missis  here  ?  ” 

“  No,  Kitty ;  why  are  you  come  to  ask  ?  99 
“  Because  ’m,  she ’s  niver  been  at  home  since  yesterday 
mornin’,  since  afore  we  was  up ;  an’  we  thought  somethin’ 
must  ha’  happened  to  her.” 

“No,  don’t  be  frightened,  Kitty.  Your  mistress  is  quite 
safe  ;  I  know  where  she  is.  Is  your  master  at  home  ?  ” 

“No  ’m;  he  went  out  yesterday  mornin’,  an’  said  he 
should  n’t  be  back  afore  to-night.” 

“Well,  Kitty,  there’s  nothing  the  matter  with  your  mis. 
tress.  You  needn’t  say  anything  to  any  one  about  her  being 
away  from  home.  I  shall  call  presently  and  fetch  her  gown 
and  bonnet.  She  wants  them  to  put  on.” 

Kitty,  perceiving  there  was  a  mystery  she  was  not  to 
inquire  into,  returned  to  Orchard  Street,  really  glad  to  know 
that  her  mistress  was  safe,  but  disappointed  nevertheless  at 
being  told  that  she  was  not  to  be  frightened.  She  was  sooa 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


353 


followed  by  Mrs.  Raynor  in  quest  of  the  gown  and  bonnet. 
The  good  mother,  on  learning  that  Dempster  was  not  at  home, 
had  at  once  thought  that  she  could  gratify  Janet’s  wish  to  go 
to  Paddiford  Church. 

“  See,  my  dear,”  she  said,  as  she  entered  Mrs.  Pettifer’s  par¬ 
lor;  “I  ’ve  brought  you  your  black  clothes.  Robert ’s  not  at 
home,  and  is  not  coming  till  this  evening.  I  could  n’t  find 
your  best  black  gown,  but  this  will  do.  I  would  n’t  bring  any 
thing  else,  you  know ;  but  there  can’t  be  any  objection  to  my 
fetching  clothes  to  cover  you.  You  can  go  to  Paddiford 
Church  now,  if  you  like  ;  and  I  will  go  with  you.” 

“  That ’s  a  dear  mother  !  Then  we  ’ll  all  three  go  together. 
Come  and  help  me  to  get  ready.  Good  little  Mrs.  Crewe ! 
It  will  vex  her  sadly  that  I  should  go  to  hear  Mr.  Tryan. 
But  I  must  kiss  her,  and  make  it  up  with  her.” 

Many  eyes  were  turned  on  Janet  with  a  look  of  surprise  as 
she  walked  up  the  aisle  of  Paddiford  Church.  She  felt  a  little 
tremor  at  the  notice  she  knew  she  was  exciting,  but  it  was  a 
strong  satisfaction  to  her  that  she  had  been  able  at  once  to 
take  a  step  that  would  let  her  neighbors  know  her  change  of 
feeling  towards  Mr.  Tryan :  she  had  left  herself  now  no  room 
for  proud  reluctance  or  weak  hesitation.  The  walk  through 
the  sweet  spring  air  had  stimulated  all  her  fresh  hopes,  all 
her  yearning  desires  after  purity,  strength,  and  peace.  She 
thought  she  should  find  a  new  meaning  in  the  prayers  this 
morning;  her  full  heart,  like  an  overflowing  river,  wanted 
those  ready-made  channels  to  pour  itself  into ;  and  then  she 
should  hear  Mr.  Tryan  again,  and  his  words  would  fall  on  her 
like  precious  balm,  as  they  had  done  last  night.  There  was  a 
liquid  brightness  in  her  eyes  as  they  rested  on  the  mere  walls, 
the  pews,  the  weavers  and  colliers  in  their  Sunday  clothes. 
The  commonest  things  seemed  to  touch  the  spring  of  love 
within  her,  just  as,  when  we  are  suddenly  released  from  an 
acute  absorbing  bodily  pain,  our  heart  and  senses  leap  out  in 
new  freedom ;  we  think  even  the  noise  of  streets  harmonious, 
and  are  ready  to  hug  the  tradesman  who  is  wrapping  up  our 
change.  A  door  had  been  opened  in  Janet’s  cold  dark  prison 
Of  self-despair,  and  the  golden  light  of  morning  was  pouring 

23 


VOL.  IV. 


354 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


in  its  slanting  beams  through  the  blessed  opening.  There  was 
sunlight  in  the  world ;  there  was  a  divine  love  caring  for  her ; 
it  had  given  her  an  earnest  of  good  things ;  it  had  been  pre¬ 
paring  comfort  for  her  in  the  very  moment  when  she  had 
thought  herself  most  forsaken. 

Mr.  Try  an  might  well  rejoice  when  his  eye  rested  on  her 
as  he  entered  his  desk ;  but  he  rejoiced  with  trembling.  He 
could  not  look  at  the  sweet  hopeful  face  without  remembering 
its  yesterday’s  look  of  agony ;  and  there  was  the  possibility 
that  that  look  might  return. 

Janet’s  appearance  at  church  was  greeted  not  only  by  won¬ 
dering  eyes,  but  by  kind  hearts,  and  after  the  service  several 
of  Mr.  Tryan’s  hearers  with  whom  she  had  been  on  cold 
terms  of  late,  contrived  to  come  up  to  her  and  take  her  by 
the  hand. 

“ Mother,”  said  Miss  Linnet,  “do  let  us  go  and  speak  to 
Mrs.  Dempster.  I ’m  sure  there ’s  a  great  change  in  her  mind 
towards  Mr.  Tryan.  I  noticed  how  eagerly  she  listened  to 
the  sermon,  and  she’s  come  with  Mrs.  Peftifer,  you  see.  We 
ought  to  go  and  give  her  a  welcome  among  us.” 

“Why,  my  dear,  we  ’ve  never  spoke  friendly  these  five  year. 
You  know  she ’s  been  as  haughty  as  anything  since  I  quar¬ 
relled  with  her  husband.  However,  let  bygones  be  bygones : 
I ’ve  no  grudge  again’  the  poor  thing,  more  particular  as  she 
must  ha’  flew  in  her  husband’s  face  to  come  an’  hear  Mr. 
Tryan.  Yes,  let  us  go  an’  speak  to  her.” 

The  friendly  words  and  looks  touched  Janet  a  little  too 
keenly,  and  Mrs.  Pettifer  wisely  hurried  her  home  by  the 
least  frequented  road.  When  they  reached  home,  a  violent  fit 
of  weeping,  followed  by  continuous  lassitude,  showed  that  the 
emotions  of  the  morning  had  overstrained  her  nerves.  She 
was  suffering,  too,  from  the  absence  of  the  long-accustomed 
stimulus  which  she  had  promised  Mr.  Tryan  not  to  touch 
again.  The  poor  thing  was  conscious  of  this,  and  dreaded  her 
own  weakness,  as  the  victim  of  intermittent  insanity  dreads 
the  oncoming  of  the  old  illusion. 

“Mother,”  she  whispered,  when  Mrs.  Raynor  urged  her  to 
lie  down  and  rest  all  the  afternoon,  that  she  might  be  the 


JANET’S  KEPENTANCE.  355 

better  prepared  to  see  Mr.  Tryan  in  the  evening  —  “mother, 
don’t  let  me  have  anything  if  I  ask  for  it.” 

In  the  mother’s  mind  there  was  the  same  anxiety,  and  in 
her  it  was  mingled  with  another  fear  —  the  fear  lest  Janet,  in 
her  present  excited  state  of  mind,  should  take  some  premature 
step  in  relation  to  her  husband,  which  might  lead  back  to  all 
the  former  troubles.  The  hint  she  had  thrown  out  in  the 
morning  of  her  wish  to  return  to  him  after  a  time,  showed  a 
new  eagerness  for  difficult  duties,  that  only  made  the  long- 
saddened  sober  mother  tremble. 

But  as  evening  approached,  Janet’s  morning  heroism  all  for¬ 
sook  her  :  her  imagination,  influenced  by  physical  depression 
as  well  a,s  by  mental  habits,  was  haunted  by  the  vision  of  her 
husband’s  return  home,  and  she  began  to  shudder  with  the 
yesterday’s  dread.  She  heard  him  calling  her,  she  saw  him 
going  to  her  mother’s  to  look  for  her,  she  felt  sure  he  would 
find  her  out,  -and  burst  in  upon  her. 

“Pray,  pray,  don’t  leave  me,  don’t  go  to  church,”  she  said  to 
Mrs.  Pettifer.  “You  and  mother  both  stay  with  me  till  Mr. 
Tryan  comes.” 

At  twenty  minutes  past  six  the  church  bells  were  ringing 
for  the  evening  service,  and  soon  the  congregation  was  stream¬ 
ing  along  Orchard  Street  in  the  mellow  sunset.  The  street 
opened  toward  the  west.  The  red  half-sunken  sun  shed  a 
solemn  splendor  on  the  every-day  houses,  and  crimsoned  the 
windows  of  Dempster’s  projecting  upper  storey. 

Suddenly  a  loud  murmur  arose  and  spread  along  the  stream 
of  church-goers,  and  one  group  after  another  paused  and  looked 
backward.  At  the  far  end  of  the  street,  men,  accompanied 
by  a  miscellaneous  group  of  onlookers,  were  slowly  carrying 
something  —  a  body  stretched  on  a  door.  Slowly  they  passed 
along  the  middle  of  the  street,  lined  all  the  way  with  awe¬ 
struck  faces,  till  they  turned  aside  and  paused  in  the  red  sun¬ 
light  before  Dempster’s  door. 

It  was  Dempster’s  body.  No  one  knew  whether  he  was 
alive  or  dead. 


356 


SCENES  OE  CLERICAL  LIES, 


CHAPTER  XXEL 

It  was  probably  a  hard  saying  to  the  Pharisees,  that  “  there 
is  more  joy  in  heaven  over  one  sinner  that  repenteth,  than 
over  ninety  and  nine  just  persons  that  need  no  repentance.” 
And  certain  ingenious  philosophers  of  our  own  day  must 
surely  take  offence  at  a  joy  so  entirely  out  of  correspondence 
with  arithmetical  proportion.  But  a  heart  that  has  been 
taught  by  its  own  sore  struggles  to  bleed  for  the  woes  of 

another  —  that  has  “ learned  pity  through  suffering” _ is 

likely  to  find  very  imperfect  satisfaction  in  the  “  balance  of 
happiness,”  “  doctrine  of  compensations,”  and  other  short  and 
easy  methods  of  obtaining  thorough  complacency  in  the  pres¬ 
ence  of  pain;  and  for  such  a  heart  that  saying  will  not  be 
altogether  dark.  The  emotions,  I  have  observed,  are  but 
slightly  influenced  by  arithmetical  considerations  :  the  mother, 
when  her  sweet  lisping  little  ones  have  all  been  taken  from 
her  one  after  another,  and  she  is  hanging  over  her  last  dead 
babe,  finds  small  consolation  in  the  fact  that  the  tiny  dimpled 
corpse  is  but  one  of  a  necessary  average,  and  that  a  thousand 
other  babes  brought  into  the  world  at  the  same  time  are  doing 
well,  and  are  likely  to  live;  and  if  you  stood  beside  that 
mother  —  if  you  knew  her  pang  and  shared  it  —  it  is  probable 
you  would  be  equally  unable  to  see  a  ground  of  complacency 
in  statistics. 

Doubtless  a  complacency  resting  on  that  basis  is  highly  ra¬ 
tional  ;  but  emotion,  I  fear,  is  obstinately  irrational :  it  insists 
on  caring  for  individuals ;  it  absolutely  refuses  to  adopt  the 
quantitative  view  of  human  anguish,  and  to  admit  that  thir¬ 
teen  happy  lives  are  a  set-off  against  twelve  miserable  lives, 
which  leaves  a  clear  balance  on  the  side  of  satisfaction.  This 
is  the  inherent  imbecility  of  feeling,  and  one  must  be  a  great 
philosopher  to  have  got  quite  clear  of  all  that,  and  to  have 
emerged  intq  the  serene  air  of  pure  intellect,  in  which  it  is 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


357 


evident  that  individuals  really  exist  for  no  other  purpose  than 
that  abstractions  may  be  drawn  from  them  —  abstractions  that 
may  rise  from  heaps  of  ruined  lives  like  the  sweet  savor  of  a 
sacrifice  in  the  nostrils  of  philosophers,  and  of  a  philosophic 
Deity.  And  so  it  comes  to  pass  that  for  the  man  who  knows 
sympathy  because  he  has  known  sorrow,  that  old,  old  saying 
about  the  joy  of  angels  over  the  repentant  sinner  outweighing 
their  joy  over  the  ninety-nine  just,  has  a  meaning  which  does 
not  jar  with  the  language  of  his  own  heart.  It  only  tells  him, 
that  for  angels  too  there  is  a  transcendent  value  in  human 
pain,  which  refuses  to  be  settled  by  equations ;  that  the  eyes 
of  angels  too  are  turned  away  from  the  serene  happiness  of 
the  righteous  to  bend  with  yearning  pity  on  the  poor  erring 
soul  wandering  in  the  desert  where  no  water  is ;  that  for  an¬ 
gels  too  the  misery  of  one  casts  so  tremendous  a  shadow  as  to 
eclipse  the  bliss  of  ninety-nine. 

Mr.  Tryan  had  gone  through  the  initiation  of  suffering :  it 
is  no  wonder,  then,  that  Janet’s  restoration  was  the  work  that 
lay  nearest  his  heart ;  and  that,  weary  as  he  was  in  body  when 
he  entered  the  vestry  after  the  evening  service,  he  was  im¬ 
patient  to  fulfil  the  promise  of  seeing  her.  His  experience 
enabled  him  to  divine  —  what  was  the  fact  —  that  the  hopeful¬ 
ness  of  the  morning  would  be  followed  by  a  return  of  depression 
and  discouragement ;  and  his  sense  of  the  inward  and  outward 
difficulties  in  the  way  of  her  restoration  was  so  keen,  that  he 
could  only  find  relief  from  the  foreboding  it  excited  by  lifting 
up  his  heart  in  prayer.  There  are  unseen  elements  which 
often  frustrate  our  wisest  calculations  —  which  raise  up  the 
sufferer  from  the  edge  of  the  grave,  contradicting  the  proph¬ 
ecies  of  the  clear-sighted  physician,  and  fulfilling  the  blind 
clinging  hopes  of  affection ;  such  unseen  elements  Mr.  Tryan 
called  the  Divine  Will,  and  filled  up  the  margin  of  ignorance 
which  surrounds  all  our  knowledge  with  the  feelings  of  trust 
and  resignation.  Perhaps  the  profoundest  philosophy  could 
hardly  fill  it  up  better. 

His  mind  was  occupied  in  this  way  as  he  was  absently  tak¬ 
ing  off  his  gown,  when  Mr.  Landor  startled  him  by  entering 
the  vestry  and  asking  abruptly  — 


358 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


“  Have  you  heard  the  news  about  Dempster  ?  99 

“  No,”  said  Mr.  Try  an,  anxiously  ;  “  what  is  it  ? 99 

“  He  has  been  thrown  out  of  his  gig  in  the  Bridge  Way,  and 
he  was  taken  up  for  dead.  They  were  carrying  him  home  as 
we  were  coming  to  church,  and  I  stayed  behind  to  see  what  I 
could  do.  I  went  in  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Dempster,  and  prepare 
her  a  little,  but  she  was  not  at  home.  Dempster  is  not  dead, 
however ;  he  was  stunned  with  the  fall.  Pilgrim  came  in  a 
few  minutes,  and  he  says  the  right  leg  is  broken  in  two  places. 
It ’s  likely  to  be  a  terrible  case,  with  his  state  of  body.  It 
seems  he  was  more  drunk  than  usual,  and  they  say  he  came 
along  the  Bridge  Way  flogging  his  horse  like  a  madman,  till 
at  last  it  gave  a  sudden  wheel,  and  he  was  pitched  out.  The 
servants  said  they  didn’t  know  where  Mrs.  Dempster  was; 
she  had  been  away  from  home  since  yesterday  morning ;  bul 
Mrs.  Raynor  knew.” 

“  I  know  where  she  is,”  said  Mr.  Tryan ;  “  but  I  think  it 
will  be  better  for  her  not  to  be  told  of  this  just  yet.” 

“  Ah,  that  was  what  Pilgrim  said,  and  so  I  did  n’t  go  round 
to  Mrs.  Raynor’s.  He  said  it  would  be  all  the  better  if  Mrs. 
Dempster  could  be  kept  out  of  the  house  for  the  present.  Do 
you  know  if  anything  new  has  happened  between  Dempster 
and  his  wife  lately  ?  I  was  surprised  to  hear  of  her  being  at 
Paddifora  Church  this  morning.” 

“Yes,  something  has  happened;  but  I  believe  she  is  anxious 
that  the  particulars  of  his  behavior  towards  her  should  not  be 
known.  She  is  at  Mrs.  Pettifer’s  —  there  is  no  reason  for  con¬ 
cealing  that,  since  what  has  happened  to  her  husband ;  and 
yesterday,  when  she  was  in  very  deep  trouble,  she  sent  for  me. 
I  was  very  thankful  she  did  so :  I  believe  a  great  change  of 
feeling  has  begun  in  her.  But  she  is  at  present  in  that  excit¬ 
able  state  of  mind  —  she  has  been  shaken  by  so  many  painful 
emotions  during  the  last  two  days,  that  I  think  it  would  be 
better,  for  this  evening  at  least,  to  guard  her  from  a  new 
shock,  if  possible.  But  I  going  now  to  call  upon  her,  and 
I  shall  see  how  she  is.” 

“  Mr.  Tryan,”  said  Mr.  Jerome,  who  had  entered  during  the 
dialogue,  and  had  been  standing  by,  listening  with  a  distressed 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


359 


face,  “  I  shall  take  it  as  a  favor  if  you  ’ll  let  me  know  if  iver 
there ’s  anything  I  can  do  for  Mrs.  Dempster.  Eh,  dear,  what 
a  world  this  is  !  I  think  I  see  ’em  fifteen  year  ago  —  as  happy 
a  young  couple  as  iver  was  ;  and  now,  what  it ’s  all  come  to ! 
I  was  in  a  hurry,  like,  to  punish  Dempster  for  pessecutin’,  but 
there  was  a  stronger  hand  at  work  nor  mine.” 

‘•Yes,  Mr.  Jerome;  but  don’t  let  us  rejoice  in  punishment; 
even  when  the  hand  of  God  alone  inflicts  it.  The  best  of  us 
are  but  poor  wretches  just  saved  from  shipwreck  :  can  we  feel 
anything  but  awe  and  pity  when  we  see  a  fellow-passenger 
swallowed  by  the  waves  ?  ” 

“  Right,  right,  Mr.  Tryan.  I ’m  over  hot  and  hasty,  that 
I  am.  But  I  beg  on  you  to  tell  Mrs.  Dempster  —  I  mean, 
in  course,  when  you ’ve  an  opportunity  —  tell  her  she ’s  a 
friend  at  the  White  House  as  she  may  send  for  any  hour  o’ 
the  day.” 

“  Yes  ;  I  shall  have  an  opportunity,  I  dare  say,  and  I  will 
remember  your  wish.  I  think,”  continued  Mr.  Tryan,  turning 
to  Mr.  Landor,  “  I  had  better  see  Mr.  Pilgrim  on  my  way,  and 
learn  what  is  exactly  the  state  of  things  by  this  time.  What 
do  you  think  ?  ” 

“  By  all  means  :  if  Mrs.  Dempster  is  to  know,  there ’s  no 
one  can  break  the  news  to  her  so  well  as  you.  I  ’ll  walk 
with  you  to  Dempster’s  door.  I  dare  say  Pilgrim  is  there  still. 
Come,  Mr.  Jerome,  you’ve  got  to  go  our  way  too,  to  fetch 
your  horse.” 

Mr.  Pilgrim  was  in  the  passage  giving  some  directions  to 
his  assistant,  when,  to  his  surprise,  he  saw  Mr.  Tryan  enter. 
They  shook  hands ;  for  Mr.  Pilgrim,  never  having  joined  the 
party  of  the  Anti-Tryanites,  had  no  ground  for  resisting  the 
growing  conviction,  that  the  Evangelical  curate  was  really  a 
good  fellow,  though  he  was  a  fool  for  not  taking  better  care 
of  himself. 

“ Why,  I  didn’t  expect  to  see  you  in  your  old  enemy’s 
quarters,”  he  said  to  Mr.  Tryan.  “  However,  it  will  be  a  good 
while  before  poor  Dempster  shows  any  fight  again.” 

“I  came  on  Mrs.  Dempster’  scount,”  said  Mr.  Tryan. 
“She  is  staying  at  Mrs.  Pettifer’s;  she  has  had  a  great  shock 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

from  some  severe  domestic  trouble  lately,  and  I  think  it  will 
be  wise  to  defer  telling  her  of  this  dreadful  event  for  a  short 
time.” 

u  Why,  what  has  been  up,  eh  ?  ”  said  Mr.  Pilgrim,  whose 
curiosity  was  at  once  awakened.  “She  used  to  be  no  friend 
of  yours.  Has  there  been  some  split  between  them?  It’s  a 
new  thing  for  her  to  turn  round  on  him.” 

u  Oh?  merely  an  exaggeration  of  scenes  that  must  often  have 
happened  before.  But  the  question  now  is,  whether  you  think 
there  is  any  immediate  danger  of  her  husband’s  death  ;  for 
in  that  case,  I  think,  from  what  I  have  observed  of  her  feel¬ 
ings,  she  would  be  pained  afterwards  to  have  been  kept  in 
ignorance.” 

u  Well,  there ’s  no  telling  in  these  cases,  you  know.  I  don’t 
apprehend  speedy  death,  and  it  is  not  absolutely  impossible 
that  we  may  bring  him  round  again.  At  present  he ’s  in  a 
state  of  apoplectic  stupor;  but  if  that  subsides,  delirium  is 
almost  sure  to  supervene,  and  we  shall  have  some  painful 
scenes.  It ’s  one  of  those  complicated  cases  in  which  the 
delirium  is  likely  to  be  of  the  worst  kind  —  meningitis  and 
delirium  tremens  together  —  and  we  may  have  a  good  deal  of 
trouble  with  him.  If  Mrs.  Dempster  were  told,  I  should  say 
it  would  be  desirable  to  persuade  her  to  remain  out  of  the 
house  at  present.  She  could  do  no  good,  you  know.  I ’ve  got 
nurses.” 

“Thank  you,”  said  Mr.  Tryan.  “That  is  what  I  wanted  to 
know.  Good-by.” 

When  Mrs.  Pettifer  opened  the  door  for  Mr.  Tryan,  he  told 
her  in  a  few  words  what  had  happened,  and  begged  her  to  take 
an  opportunity  of  letting  Mrs.  Raynor  know,  that  they  might, 
if  possible,  concur  in  preventing  a  premature  or  sudden  dis¬ 
closure  of  the  event  to  Janet. 

“  Poor  thing !  ”  said  Mrs.  Pettifer.  “  She ’s  not  fit  to  hear 
any  bad  news;  she’s  very  low  this  evening  —  worn  out  with 
feeling ;  and  she ’s  not  had  anything  to  keep  her  up,  as  she  \s 
been  used  to.  She  seems  frightened  at  the  thought  of  being 
tempted  to  take  it.” 

**  Thank  God  for  it ;  that  fear  is  her  greatest  security.” 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


361 


WheD  Mr.  Try  an  entered  the  parlor  this  time,  Janet  was 
again  awaiting  him  eagerly,  and  her  pale  sad  face  was  lighted 
up  with  a  smile  as  she  rose  to  meet  him.  But  the  next  mo¬ 
ment  she  said,  with  a  look  of  anxiety  — - 

“  How  very  ill  and  tired  you  look  !  You  have  been  working 
so  hard  all  day,  and  yet  you  are  come  to  talk  to  me.  Oh,  you 
are  wearing  yourself  out.  I  must  go  and  ask  Mrs.  Pettifer  to 
come  and  make  you  have  some  supper.  But  this  is  my  mother; 
you  have  not  seen  her  before,  I  think.” 

While  Mr.  Tryan  was  speaking  to  Mrs,  Raynor,  Janet  hur¬ 
ried  out,  and  he,  seeing  that  this  good-natured  thoughtfulness 
on  his  behalf  would  help  to  counteract  her  depression,  was 
not  inclined  to  oppose  her  wish,  but  accepted  the  supper  Mrs. 
Pettifer  offered  him,  quietly  talking  the  while  about  a  clothing 
club  he  was  going  to  establish  in  Paddiford,  and  the  want  of 
provident  habits  among  the  poor. 

Presently,  however,  Mrs.  Raynor  said  she  must  go  home  for 
an  hour,  to  see  how  her  little  maiden  was  going  on,  and  Mrs. 
Pettifer  left  the  room  with  her  to  take  the  opportunity  of 
telling  her  what  had  happened  to  Dempster.  When  Janet  was 
left  alone  with  Mr.  Tryan,  she  said  — 

“  I  feel  so  uncertain  what  to  do  about  my  husband.  I  am 
so  weak  —  my  feelings  change  so  from  hour  to  hour.  This 
morning,  when  I  felt  so  hopeful  and  happy,  I  thought  I  should 
like  to  go  back  to  him,  and  try  to  make  up  for  what  has  been 
wrong  in  me.  I  thought,  now  God  would  help  me,  and  I 
should  have  you  to  teach  and  advise  me,  and  I  could  bear  the 
troubles  that  would  come.  But  since  then  —  all  tlm  after¬ 
noon  and  evening  —  I  have  had  the  same  feelings  I  used  to 
have,  the  same  dread  of  his  anger  and  cruelty,  and  it  seems 
to  me  as  if  I  should  never  be  able  to  bear  it  without  falling 
into  the  same  sins,  and  doing  just  what  I  did  before.  Yet,  if 
it  were  settled  that  I  should  live  apart  from  him,  I  know  it 
would  always  be  a  load  on  my  mind  that  I  had  shut  myself 
out  from  going  back  to  him.  It  seems  a  dreadful  thing  in  life, 
when  any  one  has  been  so  near  to  one  as  a  husband  for  fifteen 
years,  to  part  and  be  nothing  to  each  other  an}-  more.  Surely 
that  is  a  very  strong  tie,  and  I  feel  as  if  my  duty  can  never 


362  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

lie  quite  away  from  it.  It  is  very  difficult  to  know  what  to 
do :  what  ought  I  to  do  ?  ” 

U I  fhink  it  will  be  well  not  to  take  any  decisive  step  yet. 
Wait  until  your  mind  is  calmer.  You  might  remain  with  your 
mother  foi  a  little  while ;  I  think  you  have  no  real  ground  for 
fearing  any  annoyance  from  your  husband  at  present ;  he  has 
put  himself  too  much  in  the  wrong ;  he  will  very  likely  leave 
you  unmolested  for  some  time.  Dismiss  this  difficult  question 
fiom  your  mind  just  now,  if  you  can.  Every  new  day  may 
bring  you  new  grounds  for  decision,  and  what  is  most  needful 
for  your  health  of  mind  is  repose  from  that  haunting  anxiety 
about  the  future  which  has  been  preying  on  you.  Cast  your¬ 
self  on  God,  and  trust  that  he  will  direct  you  ;  he  will  make 
your  duty  clear  to  you,  if  you  wait  submissively  on  him.” 

“  Yes ;  I  will  wait  a  little,  as  you  tell  me.  I  will  go  to  my 
mother’s  to-morrow,  and  pray  to  be  guided  rightly.  You  will 
pray  for  me,  too,” 


♦ 


CHAPTER  XX HX 

The  next  morning  Janet  was  so  much  calmer,  and  at  break- 
fast  spoke  so  decidedly  of  going  to  her  mother’s,  that  Mrs. 
Pettifer  and  Mrs.  Raynor  agreed  it  would  be  wise  to  let  her 
know  by  degrees  what  had  befallen  her  husband,  since  as  soon 
as  she  went  out  there  would  be  danger  of  her  meeting  some 
one  who  would  betray  the  fact.  But  Mrs.  Raynor  thought  it 
would  be  well  first  to  call  at  Dempster’s,  and  ascertain  how  he 
was  :  so  she  said  to  Janet — - 

“My  dear,  I’ll  go  home  first,  and  see  to  things,  and  get 
your  room  ready.  You  need  n’t  come  yet,  you  know.  I  shall 
ne  back  again  in  an  hour  or  so,  and  we  can  go  together.” 

“Oh  no,”  said  Mrs.  Pettifer.  “Stay  with  me  till  evening. 
I  shall  be  lost  without  you.  You  need  n’t  go  till  quite 
evening.” 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


363 


Janet  had  dipped  into  the  “Life  of  Henry  Martyn,”  which 
Mrs.  Pettifer  had  from  the  Paddiford  Lending  Library,  and 
her  interest  was  so  arrested  by  that  pathetic  missionary  story, 
that  she  readily  acquiesced  in  both  propositions,  and  Mrs- 
Raynor  set  out. 

She  had  been  gone  more  than  an  hour,  and  it  was  nearly 
twelve  o’clock,  when  Janet  put  down  her  book;  and  after 
sitting  meditatively  for  some  minutes  with  her  eyes  uncon¬ 
sciously  fixed  on  the  opposite  wall,  she  rose,  went  to  her  bed¬ 
room,  and,  hastily  putting  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  came 
down  to  Mrs.  Pettifer,  who  was  busy  in  the  kitchen. 

“  Mrs.  Pettifer,”  she  said,  “  tell  mother,  when  she  comes 
back,  I ’m  gone  to  see  what  has  become  of  those  poor  Lakins 
in  Butcher  Lane.  I  know  they  ’re  half  starving,  and  I ’ve 
neglected  them  so,  lately.  And  then,  I  think,  I  ’ll  go  on  to 
Mrs.  Crewe.  I  want  to  see  the  dear  little  woman,  and  tell  her 
myself  about  my  going  to  hear  Mr.  Tryan.  She  won’t  feel  it 
half  so  much  if  I  tell  her  myself.” 

“Won’t  you  wait  till  your  mother  comes,  or  put  it  off  till 
to-morrow?”  said  Mrs.  Pettifer,  alarmed.  ^You’ll  hardly 
be  back  in  time  for  dinner,  if  you  get  talking  to  Mrs.  Crewe. 
And  you  ’ll  have  to  pass  by  your  husband’s,  you  know ;  and 
yesterday,  you  were  so  afraid  of  seeing  him.” 

“  Oh,  Robert  will  be  shut  up  at  the  office  now,  if  he ’s  not 
gone  out  of  the  town.  I  must  go  —  I  feel  I  must  be  doing 
something  for  some  one  —  not  be  a  mere  useless  log  any 
longer.  I ’ve  been  reading  about  that  wonderful  Henry  Mar¬ 
tyn  ;  he ’s  just  like  Mr.  Tryan  —  wearing  himself  out  for  other 
people,  and  I  sit  thinking  of  nothing  but  myself.  I  must  go. 
Good-by ;  I  shall  be  back  soon.” 

She  ran  off  before  Mrs.  Pettifer  could  utter  another  word  of 
dissuasion,  leaving  the  good  woman  in  considerable  anxiety 
lest  this  new  impulse  of  Janet’s  should  frustrate  all  precau¬ 
tions  to  save  her  from  a  sudden  shock. 

Janet  having  paid  her  visit  in  Butcher  Lane,  turned  again 
into  Orchard  Street  on  her  way  to  Mrs.  Crewe’s,  and  was 
thinking,  rather  sadly,  that  her  mother’s  economical  house¬ 
keeping  would  leave  no  abundant  surplus  to  be  sent  to  the 


364  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

hungry  Lakins,  when  she  saw  Mr.  Pilgrim  in  advance  of  hei 
on  the  other  side  of  the  street.  He  was  walking  at  a  rapid 
pace,  and  when  he  reached  Dempster’s  door  he  turned  and 
entered  without  knocking. 

Janet  was  startled.  Mr.  Pilgrim  would  never  enter  in  that 
way  unless  there  were  some  one  very  ill  in  the  house.  It  was 
ner  husband ;  she  felt  certain  of  it  at  once.  Something  had 
happened  to  him.  Without  a  moment’s  pause,  she  ran  across 
the  street,  opened  the  door,  and  entered.  There  was  no  one 
in  the  passage.  The  dining-room  door  was  wide  open  —  no 
one  was  there.  Mr.  Pilgrim,  then,  was  already  up-stairs.  She 
rushed  up  at  once  to  Dempster’s  room  —  her  own  room.  The 
door  was  open,  and  she  paused  in  pale  horror  at  the  sight 
before  her,  which  seemed  to  stand  out  only  with  the  more  ap¬ 
palling  distinctness  because  the  noonday  light  was  darkened 
to  twilight  in  the  chamber. 

Two  strong  nurses  were  using  their  utmost  force  to  hold 
Dempster  in  bed,  while  the  medical  assistant  was  applying  a 
sponge  to  his  head,  and  Mr.  Pilgrim  was  busy  adjusting  some 
apparatus  in  the  background.  Dempster’s  face  was  purple  aud 
swollen,  his  eyes  dilated,  and  fixed  with  a  look  of  dire  terror 
on  something  he  seemed  to  see  approaching  him  from  the 
iron  closet.  He  trembled  violently,  and  struggled  as  if  to 
jump  out  of  bed. 

“  Let  me  go,  let  me  go,”  he  said  in  a  loud,  hoarse  whisper  ; 
“  she ’s  coming  .  .  .  she ’s  cold  ...  she ’s  dead  ...  she  ’ll 
strangle  me  with  her  black  hair.  Ah !  ”  he  shrieked  aloud, 
u  her  hair  is  all  serpents  .  .  .  they  ’re  black  serpents  .  .  . 
they  hiss  .  .  .  they  hiss  ...  let  me  go  .  let  me  go  .  .  . 
she  wants  to  drag  me  with  her  cold  arms  .  .  .  her  arms  are 
serpents  .  .  .  they  are  great  white  serpents  .  .  .  they  ’ll 
twine  round  me  .  .  .  she  wants  to  drag  me  into  the  cold 
water  ...  her  bosom  is  cold  ...  it  is  black  ...  it  is  all 
serpents  —  ” 

a  No,  Robert,”  Janet  cried,  in  tones  of  yearning  pity,  rush¬ 
ing  to  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  stretching  out  her  arms  towards 
him,  <c  *\o,  here  is  Janet.  She  is  not  dead  —  she  forgives 

you.” 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


865 


Dempster ’s  maddened  senses  seemed  to  receive  some  new 
impression  from  her  appearance.  The  terror  gave  way  to 
rage. 

“  Ha  !  you  sneaking  hypocrite  !  ”  he  burst  out  in  a  grating 
voice,  “  you  threaten  me  .  .  .  you  mean  to  have  your  revenge 
on  me,  do  you  ?  Do  your  worst !  I ’ve  got  the  law  on  my  side 
...  I  know  the  law  ...  I  ’ll  hunt  you  down  like  a  hare  .  .  . 
prove  it  .  .  .  prove  that  I  was  tampered  with  .  .  .  prove  that 
I  took  the  money  .  .  .  prove  it  .  .  .  you  can  prove  nothing 
.  .  .  you  damned  psalm-singing  maggots !  I  ’ll  make  a  fire 
under  you,  and  smoke  off  the  whole  pack  of  you  ...  I  ’ll 
sweep  you  up  ...  I  ’ll  grind  you  to  powder  .  .  .  small 
powder  .  .  .  (here  his  voice  dropt  to  a  low  tone  of  shuddering 
disgust)  .  .  .  powder  on  the  bed-clothes  .  .  .  running  about 
.  .  .  black  lice  .  .  .  they  are  coming  in  swarms  .  .  .  Janet ! 
come  and  take  them  away  .  .  .  curse  you !  why  don’t  you 
come  ?  Janet !  ” 

Poor  Janet  was  kneeling  by  the  bed  with  her  face  buried  in 
her  hands.  She  almost  wished  her  worst  moment  back  again 
rather  than  this.  It  seemed  as  if  her  husband  was  already 
imprisoned  in  misery,  and  she  could  not  reach  him  —  his  ear 
deaf  forever  to  the  sounds  of  love  and  forgiveness.  His  sins 
had  made  a  hard  crust  round  his  soul ;  her  pitying  voice  could 
not  pierce  it. 

“Not  there,  isn’t  she?”  he  went  on  in  a  defiant  tone. 
“  Why  do  you  ask  me  where  she  is  ?  I  ’ll  have  every  drop  of 
yellow  blood  out  of  your  veins  if  you  come  questioning  me. 
Your  blood  is  yellow  ...  in  your  purse  .  .  .  running  out  of 
your  purse.  .  .  .  What !  you  ’re  changing  it  into  toads,  are 
you  ?  They  ’re  crawling  .  .  .  they  ’re  flying  .  .  .  they  ’re  fly¬ 
ing  about  my  head  .  .  .  the  toads  are  flying  about.  Ostler! 
ostler !  bring  out  my  gig  .  .  .  bring  it  out,  you  lazy  beast  .  .  . 
ha!  you’ll  follow  me,  will  you  ?  .  .  .  you’ll  fly  about  my  head 
.  .  .  you ’ve  got  fiery  tongues  .  .  .  Ostler  !  curse  you !  why 
don’t  you  come  ?  Janet !  come  and  take  the  toads  away  .  .  . 
Janet !  ” 

This  last  time  he  uttered  her  name  with  such  a  shriek  of 
terror,  that  Janet  involuntariJy  started  up  from  her  knees, 


866  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

and  stood  as  if  petrified  by  the  horrible  vibration.  Dempster 
stared  wildly  in  silence  for  some  moments ;  then  he  spoke 
again  in  a  hoarse  whisper  — 

“ Dead  •  •  •  is  she  dead  ?  She  did  it,  then.  She  buried 
herself  in  the  iron  chest  ...  she  left  her  clothes  out, 
though  .  .  .  she  is  n’t  dead  .  .  .  why  do  you  pretend  she ’s 
dead  ?  .  .  .  she ’s  coming  .  .  .  she ’s  coming  out  of  the  iron 
closet  .  .  .  there  are  the  black  serpents  .  .  .  stop  her  ...  let 
me  go  .  .  .  stop  her  .  .  .  she  wants  to  drag  me  away  into 
the  cold  black  water  .  .  .  her  bosom  is  black  ...  it  is  all 
serpents  .  .  .  they  are  getting  longer  .  .  .  the  great  white 
serpents  are  getting  longer  —  ” 

Here  Mr.  Pilgrim  came  forward  with  the  apparatus  to  bind 
him,  but  Dempster’s  struggles  became  more  and  more  violent. 
*'  Ostler  •  ostler  !  ”  he  shouted,  “  bring  out  the  gig  .  .  .  give 
me  the  whip  !  ”  —  and  bursting  loose  from  the  strong  hands 

tii at  held  him,  he  began  to  flog  the  bed-clothes  furiously  with 
his  right  arm. 

“Get  along,  you  lame  brute  !— sc— sc— sc  !  that’s  iti 
there  you  go !  They  think  they ’ve  outwitted  me,  do  they  ? 
The  sneaking  idiots  !  I  ’ll  be  up  with  them  by-and-by.  I  ’ll 
make  them  say  the  Lord’s  Prayer  backwards  ...  I  ’ll  pepper 

them  so  that  the  devil  shall  eat  them  raw  .  .  .  sc — sc _ sc _ 

we  shall  see  who  ’ll  be  the  winner  yet  .  .  .  get  along,  you 
damned  limping  beast  ...  I  ’ll  lay  your  back  open  .  .  . 

He  raised  himself  with  a  stronger  effort  than  ever  to  flog 
the  bed-clothes,  and  fell  back  in  convulsions.  Janet  gave  a 

scream,  and  sank  on  her  knees  again.  She  thought  he  was 
dead. 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Pilgrim  was  able  to  give  her  a  moment’s 
attention,  he  came  to  her,  and,  taking  her  by  the  arm,  at¬ 
tempted  to  draw  her  gently  out  of  the  room. 

“  -^ow>  my  dear  Mrs-  Dempster,  let  me  persuade  you  not  to 
remain  in  the  room  at  present.  We  shall  soon  relieve  these 
s}  mptoms,  I  hope ;  it  is  nothing  but  the  delirium  that  ordi¬ 
narily  attends  such  cases.” 

Oh,  what  is  the  matter  ?  what  brought  it  on  ?  ^ 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


367 


“  tie  fell  out  of  the  gig ;  the  right  leg  is  broken.  It  is  ? 
terrible  accident,  and  I  don’t  disguise  that  there  is  consider 
able  danger  attending  it,  owing  to  the  state  of  the  brain.  But 
Mr.  Dempster  has  a  strong  constitution,  you  know ;  in  a  few 
days  these  symptoms  may  be  allayed,  and  he  may  do  well. 
Let  me  beg  of  you  to  keep  out  of  the  room  at  present :  you 
can  do  no  good  until  Mr.  Dempster  is  better,  and  able  to  know 
you.  But  you  ought  not  to  be  alone ;  let  me  advise  you  to 
have  Mrs.  Raynor  with  you.” 

“Yes,  I  will  send  for  mother.  But  you  must  not  object 
to  my  being  in  the  room.  I  shall  be  very  quiet  now,  only  just 
at  first  the  shock  was  so  great ;  I  knew  nothing  about  it.  I 
can  help  the  nurses  a  great  deal ;  I  can  put  the  cold  things  to 
his  head.  He  may  be  sensible  for  a  moment  and  know  me. 
Pray  do  not  say  any  more  against  it  *.  my  heart  is  set  on  being 
with  him.” 

Mr.  Pilgrim  gave  way,  and  Janet,  having  sent  for  her 
mother  and  put  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  returned  to  take  her 
place  by  the  side  of  her  husband’s  bed. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

\ 

Day  after  day,  with  only  short  intervals  of  rest,  J anet  kept 
her  place  in  that  sad  chamber.  No  wonder  the  sick-room  and 
the  lazaretto  have  so  often  been  a  refuge  from  the  tossings 
of  intellectual  doubt,  —  a  place  of  repose  for  the  worn  and 
wounded  spirit.  Here  is  a  duty  about  which  all  creeds  and  all 
philosophies  are  at  one ;  here,  at  least,  the  conscience  will  not 
be  dogged  by  doubt,  the  benign  impulse  will  not  be  checked 
by  adverse  theory ;  here  you  may  begin  to  act  without  settling 
one  preliminary  question.  To  moisten  the  sufferer’s  parched 
lips  through  the  long  night-watches,  to  bear  up  the  drooping 
head,  to  lift  the  helpless  limbs,  to  divine  the  want  that  can 
find  no  utterance  beyond  the  feeble  motion  of  the  hand  oi 


368 


SCENES  OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


beseeching  glance  of  the  eye  —  these  are  offices  that  demand 
no  self-questionings,  no  casuistry,  no  assent  to  propositions, 
no  weighing  of  consequences.  Within  the  four  walls  where 
the  stir  and  glare  of  the  world  are  shut  out,  and  every  voice  is 
subdued  —  where  a  human  being  lies  prostrate,  thrown  on  the 
tender  mercies  of  his  fellow,  the  moral  relation  of  man  to 
man  is  reduced  to  its  utmost  clearness  and  simplicity :  bigotry 
cannot  confuse  it,  theory  cannot  pervert  it,  passion,  awed  into 
quiescence,  can  neither  pollute  nor  perturb  it.  As  we  bend 
over  the  sick-bed,  all  the  forces  of  our  nature  rush  towards 
the  channels  of  pity,  of  patience,  and  of  love,  and  sweep  down 
the  miserable  choking  drift  of  our  quarrels,  our  debates,  our 
would-be  wisdom,  and  our  clamorous  selfish  desires.  This 
blessing  of  serene  freedom  from  the  importunities  of  opinion, 
lies  in  all  simple  direct  acts  of  mercy,  and  is  one  source  of  that 
sweet  calm  which  is  often  felt  b}^  the  watcher  in  the  sick-room, 
even  when  the  duties  there  are  of  a  hard  and  terrible  kind. 

Something  of  that  benign  result  was  felt  by  Janet  during 
her  tendance  in  her  husband’s  chamber.  When  the  first  heart- 
piercing  hours  were  over  —  when  her  horror  at  his  delirium 
was  no  longer  fresh,  she  began  to  be  conscious  of  her  relief 
from  the  burthen  of  decision  as  to  her  future  course.  The 
question  that  agitated  her,  about  returning  to  her  husband, 
had  been  solved  in  a  moment ;  and  this  illness,  after  all,  might 
be  the  herald  of  another  blessing,  just  as  that  dreadful  mid¬ 
night  when  she  stood  an  outcast  in  cold  and  darkness  had  been 
followed  by  the  dawn  of  a  new  hope.  Robert  would  get  bet¬ 
ter  ;  this  illness  might  alter  him  ;  he  would  be  a  long  time 
feeble,  needing  help,  walking  with  a  crutch,  perhaps.  She 
would  wait  on  him  with  such  tenderness,  such  all-forgiving 
love,  that  the  old  harshness  and  cruelty  must  melt  away  for¬ 
ever  under  the  heart-sunshine  she  would  pour  around  him. 
Her  bosom  heaved  at  the  thought,  and  delicious  tears  fell. 
Janet’s  was  a  nature  in  which  hatred  and  revenge  could  find 
no  place ;  the  long  bitter  years  drew  half  their  bitterness  from 
her  ever-living  remembrance  of  the  too  short  years  of  love 
that  went  before ;  and  the  thought  that  her  husband  would 
pver  put  her  hand  to  his  lips  again,  and  recall  the  days  when 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


369 


they  sat  on  the  grass  together,  and  he  laid  scarlet  poppies  on 
her  black  hair,  and  called  her  his  gypsy  queen,  seemed  to  send 
a  tide  of  loving  oblivion  over  all  the  harsh  and  stony  space 
they  had  traversed  since.  The  Divine  Love  that  had  already 
shone  upon  her  would  be  with  her ;  she  would  lift  up  her  soul 
continually  for  help;  Mr.  Tryan,  she  knew,  would  pray  for 
her.  If  she  felt  herself  failing,  she  would  confess  it  to  him  at 
once ;  if  her  feet  began  to  slip,  there  was  that  stay  for  her  to 
cling  to.  Oh,  she  could  never  be  drawn  back  into  that  cold 
damp  vault  of  sin  and  despair  again;  she  had  felt  the  morning 
sun,  she  had  tasted  the  sweet  pure  air  of  trust  and  penitence 
and  submission. 

These  were  the  thoughts  passing  through  Janet’s  mind  as 
she  hovered  about  her  husband’s  bed,  and  these  were  the  hopes 
she  poured  out  to  Mr.  Tryan  when  he  called  to  see  her.  It 
was  so  evident  that  they  were  strengthening  her  in  her  new 
struggle  —  they  shed  such  a  glow  of  calm  enthusiasm  over  her 
face  as  she  spoke  of  them,  that  Mr.  Tryan  could  not  bear  to 
throw  on  them  the  chill  of  premonitory  doubts,  though  a  pre¬ 
vious  conversation  he  had  had  with  Mr.  Pilgrim  had  convinced 
him  that  there  was  not  the  faintest  probability  of  Dempster’s 
recovery.  Poor  Janet  did  not  know  the  significance  of  the 
changing  symptoms,  and  when,  after  the  lapse  of  a  week,  the 
delirium  began  to  lose  some  of  its  violence,  and  to  be  inter¬ 
rupted  by  longer  and  longer  intervals  of  stupor,  she  tried  to 
think  that  these  might  be  steps  on  the  way  to  recovery,  and 
she  shrank  from  questioning  Mr.  Pilgrim  lest  he  should  con¬ 
firm  the  fears  that  began  to  get  predominance  in  her  mind. 
But  before  many  days  were  past,  he  thought  it  right  not  to 
allow  her  to  blind  herself  any  longer.  One  day  — it  was  just 
about  noon,  when  bad  news  always  seems  most  sickening  —  he 
led  her  from  her  husband’s  chamber  into  the  opposite  drawing¬ 
room,  where  Mrs.  Raynor  was  sitting,  and  said  to  her,  in  that 
low  tone  of  sympathetic  feeling  which  sometimes  gave  a  sud¬ 
den  air  of  gentleness  to  this  rough  man  — 

“My  dear  Mrs.  Dempster,  it  is  right  in  these  cases,  you 
know,  to  be  prepared  for  the  worst.  I  think  I  shall  be  saving 
you  pain  by  preventing  you  from  entertaining  any  false  hopes. 

VOL.  iv.  2$ 


370  SCENES  OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

and  Mr.  Dempster’s  state  is  now  such  that  I  fear  we  m  ist 
consider  recovery  impossible.  The  affection  of  the  brain 
might  not  have  been  hopeless,  but,  you  see,  there  is  a  terrible 
complication;  and  I  am  grieved  to  say  the  broken  limb  is 
mortifying.” 

Janet  listened  with  a  sinking  heart.  That  future  of  love 
and  forgiveness  would  never  come,  then :  he  was  going  out  of 
her  sight  forever,  where  her  pity  could  never  reach  him.  She 
turned  cold,  and  trembled. 

“But  do  you  think  he  will  die,”  she  said,  “without  ever 
coming  to  himself?  without  ever  knowing  me?” 

“  One  cannot  say  that  with  certainty.  It  is  not  impossible 
that  the  cerebral  oppression  may  subside,  and  that  he  may  be¬ 
come  conscious.  If  there  is  anything  you  would  wish  to  be 
said  or  done  in  that  case,  it  would  be  well  to  be  prepared.  I 
should  think,”  Mr.  Pilgrim  continued,  turning  to  Mrs.  Raynor, 
“Mr.  Dempster’s  affairs  are  likely  to  be  in  order — his  will 
is  —  ” 

“Oh,  I  wouldn’t  have  him  troubled  about  those  things,” 
interrupted  Janet,  “he  has  no  relations  but  quite  distant  ones 
—  no  one  but  me.  I  would  n’t  take  up  the  time  with  that.  I 
only  want  to  —  ” 

She  was  unable  to  finish ;  she  felt  her  sobs  rising,  and  left  the 
room.  “0  God,”  she  said,  inwardly,  “is  not  Thy  love  greater 
than  mine  ?  Have  mercy  on  him  !  have  mercy  on  him  !  ” 

This  happened  on  Wednesday,  ten  days  after  the  fatal  acci¬ 
dent.  By  the  following  Sunday,  Dempster  was  in  a  state  of 
rapidly  increasing  prostration;  and  when  Mr.  Pilgrim,  who, 
in  turn  with  his  assistant,  had  slept  in  the  house  from  the 
beginning,  came  in,  about  half-past  ten,  as  usual,  he  scarcely 
believed  that  the  feebly  struggling  life  would  last  out  till 
morning.  lor  the  last  few  days  he  had  been  administering 
stimulants  to  relieve  the  exhaustion  which  had  succeeded  the 
alternations  of  delirium  and  stupor.  This  slight  office  was  all 
that  now  remained  to  be  done  for  the  patient ;  so  at  eleven 
o’clock  Mr.  Pilgrim  went  to  bed,  having  given  directions  to 
the  nurse,  and  desired  he.  3  call  him  if  any  change  took 
place,  or  if  Mrs.  Dempster  desired  his  presence. 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


871 


Janet  could  not  be  persuaded  to  leave  tbe  room.  She  was 
yearning  and  watching  for  a  moment  in  which  her  husband’s 
eyes  would  rest  consciously  upon  her,  and  he  would  know  that 
she  had  forgiven  him. 

How  changed  he  was  since  that  terrible  Monday,  nearly  a 
fortnight  ago  !  He  lay  motionless,  but  for  the  irregular  breath¬ 
ing  that  stirred  his  broad  chest  and  thick  muscular  neck.  His 
features  were  no  longer  purple  and  swollen  ;  they  were  pale, 
sunken,  and  haggard.  A  cold  perspiration  stood  in  beads  on  the 
protuberant  forehead,  and  on  the  wasted  hands  stretched  mo¬ 
tionless  on  the  bed-clothes.  It  was  better  to  see  the  hands  so, 
than  convulsively  picking  the  air,  as  they  had  been  a  week  ago. 

Janet  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  through  the  long  hours  of 
candle-light,  watching  the  unconscious  half-closed  eyes,  wiping 
the  perspiration  from  the  brow  and  cheeks,  and  keeping  her 
left  hand  on  the  cold  unanswering  right  hand  that  lay  beside 
her  on  the  bed-clothes.  She  was  almost  as  pale  as  her  dying 
husband,  and  there  were  dark  lines  under  her  eyes,  for  this 
was  the  third  night  since  she  had  taken  off  her  clothes ;  but 
the  eager  straining  gaze  of  her  dark  eyes,  and  the  acute  sensi¬ 
bility  that  lay  in  every  line  about  her  mouth,  made  a  strange 
contrast  with  the  blank  unconsciousness  and  emaciated  animal¬ 
ism  of  the  face  she  was  watching. 

There  was  profound  stillness  in  the  house.  She  heard  no 
sound  but  her  husband’s  breathing  and  the  ticking  of  the 
watch  on  the  mantel-piece.  The  candle,  placed  high  up,  shed 
a  soft  light  down  on  the  one  object  she  cared  to  see.  There 
was  a  smell  of  brandy  in  the  room ;  it  was  given  to  her  hus¬ 
band  from  time  to  time ;  but  this  smell,  which  at  first  had 
produced  in  her  a  faint  shuddering  sensation,  was  now  becom¬ 
ing  indifferent  to  her  :  she  did  not  even  perceive  it ;  she  was 
too  unconscious  of  herself  to  feel  either  temptations  or  accusa¬ 
tions.  She  only  felt  that  the  husband  of  her  youth  was 
dying;  far,  far  out  of  her  reach,  as  if  she  were  standing  help¬ 
less  on  the  shore,  while  he  was  sinking  in  the  black  storm- 
waves  ;  she  only  yearned  for  on:  moment  in  which  she  might 
satisfy  the  deep  forgiving  pity  of  her  soul  by  one  look  of  love, 
one  word  of  tenderness. 


872 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


Her  sensations  and  thoughts  were  so  persistent  that  she 
could  not  measure  the  hours,  and  it  was  a  surprise  to  her 
when  the  nurse  put  out  the  candle,  and  let  in  the  faint  morn- 
ing  light.  Mrs.  Raynor,  anxious  about  Janet,  was  already  up, 
and  now  brought  in  some  fresh  coffee  for  her  ;  and  Mr.  Pilgrim 
having  awaked,  had  hurried  on  his  clothes,  and  was  come  in 
to  see  how  Dempster  was. 

This  change  from  candle  light  to  morning,  this  recommence¬ 
ment  of  the  same  round  of  things  that  had  happened  yester> 
day,  was  a  discouragement  rather  than  a  relief  to  Janet.  She 
was  more  conscious  of  her  chill  weariness ;  the  new  light 
thrown  on  her  husband’s  face  seemed  to  reveal  the  still  work 
that  death  had  been  doing  through  the  night ;  she  felt  her 
last  lingering  hope  that  he  would  ever  know  her  again  forsake 
her. 

But  now,  Mr.  Pilgrim,  having  felt  the  pulse,  was  putting 
some  brandy  in  a  tea-spoon  between  Dempster's  lips  ;  the 
brandy  went  down,  and  his  breathing  became  freer.  Janet 
noticed  the  change,  and  her  heart  beat  faster  as  she  leaned 
forward  to  watch  him.  Suddenly  a  slight  movement,  like  the 
passing  away  of  a  shadow,  was  visible  in  his  face,  and  he 
opened  his  eyes  full  on  Janet. 

It  was  almost  like  meeting  him  again  on  the  resurrection 
morning,  after  the  night  of  the  grave. 

“  Robert,  do  you  know  me  ?  ” 

He  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  her,  and  there  was  a  faintly  per¬ 
ceptible  motion  of  the  lips,  as  if  he  wanted  to  speak. 

But  the  moment  of  speech  was  forever  gone  —  the  moment 
for  asking  pardon  of  her,  if  he  wanted  to  ask  it.  Could  he 
read  the  full  forgiveness  that  was  written  in  her  eyes  ?  She 
never  knew ;  for,  as  she  was  bending  to  kiss  him,  the  thick 
veil  of  death  fell  between  them,  and  her  lips  touched  a 
corpse. 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE 


373 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

The  faces  looked  very  hard  and  unmoved  that  surrounded 
Dempster’s  grave,  while  old  Mr.  Crewe  read  the  burial-service 
m  his  low,  broken  voice.  The  pall-bearers  were  such  men  as 
Mr.  Pittman,  Mr.  Lowme,  and  Mr.  Budd  —  men  whom  Demp¬ 
ster  had  called  his  friends  while  he  was  in  life ;  and  worldly 
faces  never  look  so  worldly  as  at  a  funeral.  They  have  the 
same  effect  of  grating  incongruity  as  the  sound  of  a  coarse 
voice  breaking  the  solemn  silence  of  night. 

The  one  face  that  had  sorrow  in  it  was  covered  by  a  thick 
crape  veil,  and  the  sorrow  was  suppressed  and  silent.  No  one 
knew  how  deep  it  was  ;  for  the  thought  in  most  of  her  neigh¬ 
bors’  minds  was,  that  Mrs.  Dempster  could  hardly  have  had 
better  fortune  than  to  lose  a  bad  husband  who  had  left  her 
the  compensation  of  a  good  income.  They  found  it  difficult 
to  conceive  that  her  husband’s  death  could  be  felt  by  her 
otherwise  than  as  a  deliverance.  The  person  who  was  most 
thoroughly  convinced  that  Janet’s  grief  was  deep  and  real, 
was  Mr.  Pilgrim,  who  in  general  was  not  at  all  weakly  given 
to  a  belief  in  disinterested  feeling. 

u  That  woman  has  a  tender  heart,”  he  was  frequently  heard 
to  observe  in  his  morning  rounds  about  this  time.  “  I  used 
to  think  there  was  a  great  deal  of  palaver  in  her,  but  you  may 
depend  upon  it  there ’s  no  pretence  about  her.  If  he ’d  been 
the  kindest  husband  in  the  world  she  could  n’t  have  felt  more. 
There ’s  a  great  deal  of  good  in  Mrs.  Dempster  —  a  great  deal 
of  good.” 

“  I  always  said  so,”  was  Mrs.  Lowme’s  reply,  when  he  made 
the  observation  to  her ;  “  she  was  always  so  very  full  of  pretty 
attentions  to  me  when  I  was  ill.  But  they  tell  me  now  she ’s 
turned  Tryanite  ;  if  that ’s  it  we  shan’t  agree  again.  It *s 
very  inconsistent  in  her,  I  think,  turning  round  in  that  way, 
after  being  the  foremost  to  laugh  at  the  Tryanite  cant,  and 


374 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


especially  in  a  woman  of  her  habits  ;  she  should  cure  herself 
of  them  before  she  pretends  to  be  over-religious.” 

“Well,  I  think  she  means  to  cure  herself,  do  you  know,” 
said  Mr.  Pilgrim,  whose  good-will  towards  Janet  was  just  now 
quite  above  that  temperate  point  at  which  he  could  indulge 
his  feminine  patients  with  a  little  judicious  detraction.  “I 
feel  sure  she  has  not  taken  any  stimulants  oil  through  her 
husband’s  illness ;  and  she  has  been  constantly  in  the  way  of 
them.  I  can  see  she  sometimes  suffers  a  good  deal  of  depres¬ 
sion  for  want  of  them  - —  it  shows  all  the  more  resolution  in 
her.  Those  cures  are  rare ;  but  I ’ve  known  them  happen 
sometimes  with  people  of  strong  will.” 

Mrs.  Lowme  took  an  opportunity  of  retailing  Mr.  Pilgrim’s 
conversation  to  Mrs.  Phipps,  who,  as  a  victim  of  Pratt  and 
plethora,  could  rarely  enjoy  that  pleasure  at  first-hand.  Mrs. 
Phipps  was  a  woman  of  decided  opinions,  though  of  wheezy 
utterance. 

“For  my  part,”  she  remarked,  “I’m  glad  to  hear  there’s 
any  likelihood  of  improvement  in  Mrs.  Dempster,  but  I  think 
the  way  things  have  turned  out  seems  to  show  that  she  was 
more  to  blame  than  people  thought  she  was ;  else,  why  should 
she  feel  so  much  about  her  husband  ?  And  Dempster,  I  un¬ 
derstand,  has  left  his 'wife  pretty  nearly  all  his  property  to  do 
as  she  likes  with ;  that  is  n’t  behaving  like  such  a  very  bad 
husband.  I  don’t  believe  Mrs.  Dempster  can  have  had  so 
much  provocation  as  they  pretended.  I ’ve  known  husbands 
who’ve  laid  plans  for  tormenting  their  wives  when  they’re 
underground  —  tying  up  their  money  and  hindering  them  from 
marrying  again.  Not  that  I  should  ever  wish  to  marry  again  ; 
I  think  one  husband  in  one’s  life  is  enough  in  all  conscience  ;  ” 
—  here  she  threw  a  fierce  glance  at  the  amiable  Mr.  Phipps, 
who  was  innocently  delighting  himself  with  the  facetiae  in  the 
“Rotherby  Guardian,”  and  thinking  the  editor  must  be  a  droll 
fellow  —  “  but  it ’s  aggravating  to  be  tied  up  in  that  way. 
Why,  they  say  Mrs.  Dempster  will  have  as  good  as  six  hun¬ 
dred  a-year  at  least.  A  fine  thing  for  her,  that  was  a  poor  girl 
without  a  farthing  to  her  fortune.  It ’s  well  if  she  does  n’t 
make  ducks  and  drakes  of  it  somehow.” 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


375 


Mrs.  Phipps’s  view  of  Janet,  however,  was  far  from  being 
the  prevalent  one  in  Milby.  Even  neighbors  who  had  no 
strong  personal  interest  in  her,  could  hardly  see  the  noble¬ 
looking  woman  in  her  widow’s  dress,  with  a  sad  sweet  gravity 
in  her  face,  and  not  be  touched  with  fresh  admiration  for  her 
—  and  not  feel,  at  least  vaguely,  that  she  had  entered  on  a 
ne\  r  life  in  which  it  was  a  sort  of  desecration  to  allude  to  the 
painful  past.  And  the  old  friends  who  had  a  real  regard  for 
her,  but  whose  cordiality  had  been  repelled  or  chilled  of  late 
years,  now  came  round  her  with  hearty  demonstrations  of  af¬ 
fection.  Mr.  Jerome  felt  that  his  happiness  had  a  substantial 
addition  now  he  could  once  more  call  on  that  “nice  little  wo¬ 
man  Mrs.  Dempster,”  and  think  of  her  with  rejoicing  instead  of 
sorrow.  The  Pratts  lost  no  time  in  returning  to  the  footing  of 
old-established  friendship  with  Janet  and  her  mother ;  and  Miss 
Pratt  felt  it  incumbent  on  her,  on  all  suitable  occasions,  to 
deliver  a  very  emphatic  approval  of  the  remarkable  strength 
of  mind  she  understood  Mrs.  Dempster  to  be  exhibiting.  The 
Miss  Linnets  were  eager  to  meet  Mr.  Tryan’s  wishes  by  greet¬ 
ing  Janet  as  one  who  was  likely  to  be  a  sister  in  religious 
feeling  and  good  works;  and  Mrs.  Linnet  was  so  agreeably 
surprised  by  the  fact  that  Dempster  had  left  his  wife  the 
money  “  in  that  handsome  way,  to  do  what  she  liked  with  it,” 
that  she  even  included  Dempster  himself,  and  his  villanous 
discovery  of  the  flaw  in  her  title  to  Pye’s  Croft,  in  her  mag¬ 
nanimous  oblivion  of  past  offences.  She  and  Mrs.  Jerome 
agreed  over  a  friendly  cup  of  tea  that  there  were  “a  many 
husbands  as  was  very  fine  spoken  an’  all  that,  an’  yet  all  the 
while  kep’  a  will  locked  up  from  you,  as  tied  you  up  as  tight 
as  anything.  I  assure  you,”  Mrs.  Jerome  continued,  dropping 
her  voice  in  a  confidential  manner,  “  I  know  no  more  to  this 
day  about  Mr.  J erome’s  will,  nor  the  child  as  is  unborn.  I  ’ve 
no  fears  about  a  income  —  I’m  well  aware  Mr.  Jerome  ’ud 
niver  leave  me  stret  for  that ;  but  I  should  like  to  hev  a  thou 
sand  or  two  at  my  own  disposial ;  it  makes  a  widow  a  deal 
more  looked  on.” 

Perhaps  this  ground  of  respect  to  widows  might  not  be  en¬ 
tirely  without  its  influence  on  the  Milby  mind,  and  might  do 


376 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


something  towards  conciliating  those  more  aristocratic  acquain¬ 
tances  of  Janet’s,  who  would  otherwise  have  been  inclined  to 
take  the  severest  view,  of  her  apostasy  towards  Evangelicalism. 
Errors  look  so  very  ugly  in  persons  of  small  means  —  one  feels 
they  are  taking  quite  a  liberty  in  going  astray ;  whereas  peo¬ 
ple  of  fortune  may  naturally  indulge  in  a  few  delinquencies. 
“  They  ’ve  got  the  money  for  it,”  as  the  girl  said  of  her  mis¬ 
tress  who  had  made  herself  ill  with  pickled  salmon.  However 
it  may  have  been,  there  was  not  an  acquaintance  of  Janet’s,  in 
Milby,  that  did  not  offer  her  civilities  in  the  early  days  of  her 
widowhood.  Even  the  severe  Mrs.  Phipps  was  not  an  excep¬ 
tion  ;  for  heaven  knows  what  would  become  of  our  sociality  if 
we  never  visited  people  we  speak  ill  of  :  we  should  live,  like 
Egyptian  hermits,  in  crowded  solitude. 

Perhaps  the  attentions  most  grateful  to  Janet  were  those  of 
her  old  friend  Mrs.  Crewe,  whose  attachment  to  her  favorite 
proved  quite  too  strong  for  any  resentment  she  might  be  sup¬ 
posed  to  feel  on  the  score  of  Mr.  Tryan.  The  little  deaf  old 
lady  couldn’t  do  without  her  accustomed  visitor,  whom  she 
had  seen  grow  up  from  child  to  woman,  always  so  willing  to 
chat  with  her  and  tell  her  all  the  news,  though  she  was  deaf ; 
while  other  people  thought  it  tiresome  to  shout  in  her  ear, 
and  irritated  her  by  recommending  ear-trumpets  of  various 
construction. 

All  this  friendliness  was  very  precious  to  Janet.  She  was 
conscious  of  the  aid  it  gave  her  in  the  self-conquest  which  was 
the  blessing  she  prayed  for  with  every  fresh  morning.  The 
chief  strength  of  her  nature  lay  in  her  affection,  which  colored 
all  the  rest  of  her  mind :  it  gave  a  personal  sisterly  tenderness 
to  her  acts  of  benevolence ;  it  made  her  cling  with  tenacity  to 
every  object  that  had  once  stirred  her  kindly  emotions.  Alas  ! 
it  was  unsatisfied,  wounded  affection  that  had  made  her  trouble 
greater  than  she  could  bear.  And  now  there  was  no  check  to 
the  full  flow  of  that  plenteous  current  in  her  nature  —  no 
gnawing  secret  anguish  —  no  overhanging  terror  —  no  inward 
shame.  Friendly  faces  beamed  on  her ;  she  felt  that  friendly 
hearts  were  approving  her,  and  wishing  her  well,  and  that 
mild  sunshine  of  good-will  fell  beneficently  on  her  new  hopes 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


877 


and  efforts,  as  the  clear  shining  after  rain  falls  on  the  tender 
leaf-buds  of  spring,  and  wins  them  from  promise  to  fulfilment. 

And  she  needed  these  secondary  helps,  for  her  wrestling  with 
her  past  self  was  not  aiways  easy.  The  strong  emotions  from 
which  the  life  of  a  human  being  receives  a  new  bias,  win  their 
victory  as  the  sea  wins  his :  though  their  advance  may  be  sure, 
they  will  often,  after  a  mightier  wave  than  usual,  seem  to  roll 
back  so  far  as  to  lose  all  the  ground  they  had  made.  Janet 
showed  the  strong  bent  of  her  will  by  taking  every  outward 
precaution  against  the  occurrence  of  a  temptation.  Her 
mother  was  now  her  constant  companion,  having  shut  up  her 
little  dwelling  and  come  to  reside  in  Orchard  Street;  and  Janet 
gave  all  dangerous  keys  into  her  keeping,  entreating  her  to 
lock  them  away  in  some  secret  place.  Whenever  the  too  well- 
known  depression  and  craving  threatened  her,  she  would  seek  a 
refuge  in  what  had  always  been  her  purest  enjoyment  —  in 
visiting  one  of  her  poor  neighbors,  in  carrying  some  food  or 
comfort  to  a  sick-bed,  in  cheering  with  her  smile  some  of  the 
familiar  dwellings  up  the  dingy  back  lanes.  But  the  great 
source  of  courage,  the  great  help  to  perseverance,  was  the 
sense  that  she  had  a  friend  and  teacher  in  Mr.  Tryan :  she 
could  confess  her  difficulties  to  him  ;  she  knew  he  prayed  for 
her ;  she  had  always  before  her  the  prospect  of  soon  seeing 
him,  and  hearing  words  of  admonition  and  comfort,  that  came 
to  her  charged  with  a  divine  power  such  as  she  had  never  found 
in  human  words  before. 

So  the  time  passed,  till  it  was  far  on  in  May,  nearly  a  month 
after  her  husband’s  death,  when,  as  she  and  her  mother  were 
seated  peacefully  at  breakfast  in  the  dining-room,  looking 
through  the  open  window  at  the  old-fashioned  garden,  where 
the  grass-plot  was  now  whitened  with  apple-blossoms,  a  letter 
was  brought  in  for  Mrs.  Raynor. 

“ Why,  there’s  the  Thurston  post-mark  on  it,”  she  said. 

“  It  must  be  about  your  aunt  Anna.  Ah,  so  it  is,  poor  thing  1 
she ’s  been  taken  worse  this  last  day  or  two,  and  has  asked 
them  to  send  for  me.  That  dropsy  is  carrying  her  off  at  last, 

I  dare  say.  Poor  thing!  it  will  be  a  happy  release.  I  must 
go,  my  dear  — she’s  your  father’s  last  sister  —  though  I  am 


378 


SCENES  OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

sorry  to  leave  you.  However,  perhaps  I  shall  not  have  to  stay 
more  than  a  night  or  two.” 

Janet  looked  distressed  as  she  said,  “  Yes,  you  must  go, 
mother.  But  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  without  you.  I 
think  I  shall  run  in  to  Mrs.  Pettifer,  and  ask  her  to  come  and 
stay  with  me  while  you  ’re  away.  I  *m  sure  she  will.” 

At  twelve  o’clock,  Janet,  having  seen  her  mother  in  the 
coach  that  was  to  carry  her  to  Thurston,  called,  on  her  way 
back,  at  Mrs.  Pettifer’s,  but  found,  to  her  great  disappointment, 
that  her  old  friend  was  gone  out  for  the  day.  So  she  wrote  on 
a  leaf  of  her  pocket-book  an  urgent  request  that  Mrs.  Pettifer 
would  come  and  stay  with  her  while  her  mother  was  away ; 
and,  desiring  the  servant-girl  to  give  it  to  her  mistress  as  soon 
as  she  came  home,  walked  on  to  the  Vicarage  to  sit  with  Mrs. 
Crewe,  thinking  to  relieve  in  this  way  the  feeling  of  desolate¬ 
ness  and  undefined  fear  that  was  taking  possession  of  her  on 
being  left  alone  for  the  first  time  siuce  that  great  crisis  in  her 
/life.  And  Mrs.  Crewe,  too,  was  not  at  home ! 

Janet,  with  a  sense  of  discouragement  for  which  she  rebuked 
herself  as  childish,  walked  sadly  home  again ;  and  when  she 
entered  the  vacant  dining-room,  she  could  not  help  bursting 
into  tears.  It  is  such  vague  undefinable  states  of  susceptibility 
as  this  —  states  of  excitement  or  depression,  half  mental,  half 
physical  —  that  determine  many  a  tragedy  in  women’s  lives. 
J anet  could  scarcely  eat  anything  at  her  solitary  dinner  :  she 
tried  to  fix  her  attention  on  a  book  in  vain;  she  whlked  about 
the  garden,  and  felt  the  very  sunshine  melancholy. 

Between  four  and  five  o’clock,  old  Mr.  Pittman  called,  and 
joined  her  in  the  garden,  where  she  had  been  sitting  for  some 
time  under  one  of  the  great  apple-trees,  thinking  how  Robert, 
in  his  best  moods,  used  to  take  little  Mamsey  to  look  at  the 
cucumbers,  or  to  see  the  Alderney  cow  with  its  calf  in  the  pad- 
dock.  The  tears  and  sobs  had  come  again  at  these  thoughts ; 
and  when  Mr.  Pittman  approached  her,  she  was  feeling  languid 
and  exhausted.  But  the  old  gentleman’s  sight  and  sensibility 
were  obtuse,  and,  to  Janet’s  satisfaction,  he  showed  no  con¬ 
sciousness  that  she  was  in  grief. 

“I  have  a  task  to  impose  upon  you,  Mrs.  Dempster,”  he  said, 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


3T9 


with  a  certain  toothless  pomposity  habitual  to  him  :  “I  want 
you  to  look  over  those  letters  again  in  Dempster’s  bureau,  and 
see  if  you  can  find  one  from  Poole  about  the  mortgage  on  those 
houses  at  Dingley.  It  will  be  worth  twenty  pounds,  if  you  can 
find  it ;  and  I  don’t  know  where  it  can  be,  if  it  is  n’t  among 
those  letters  in  the  bureau.  I ’ve  looked  everywhere  at  the 
office  for  it.  I ’m  going  home  now,  but  I  ’ll  call  again  to-mor¬ 
row,  if  you  ’ll  be  good  enough  to  look  in  the  mean  time.” 

Janet  said  she  would  look  directly,  and  turned  with  Mr. 
Pittman  into  the  house.  But  the  search  would  take  her  some 
time,  so  he  bade  her  good-by,  and  she  went  at  once  to  a  bureau 
which  stood  in  a  small  back  room,  where  Dempster  used  some¬ 
times  to  write  letters  and  receive  people  who  came  on  business 
out  of  office  hours.  She  had  looked  through  the  contents  of  the 
bureau  more  than  once ;  but  to-day,  on  removing  the  last  bun¬ 
dle  of  letters  from  one  of  the  compartments,  she  saw  what  she 
had  never  seen  before,  a  small  nick  in  the  wood,  made  in  the 
shape  of  a  thumb-nail,  evidently  intended  as  a  means  of  push¬ 
ing  aside  the  movable  back  of  the  compartment.  In  her  exami¬ 
nation  hitherto  she  bad  not  found  such  a  letter  as  Mr.  Pittman 
had  described  —  perhaps  there  might  be  more  letters  behind 
this  slide.  She  pushed  it  back  at  once,  and  saw  —  no  letters, 
but  a  small  spirit-decanter,  half  full  of  pale  brandy,  Dempster’s 
habitual  drink. 

An  impetuous  desire  shook  Janet  through  all  her  members ) 
it  seemed  to  master  her  with  the  inevitable  force  of  strong 
fumes  that  flood  our  senses  before  we  are  aware.  Her  hand 
was  on  the  decanter ;  pale  and  excited,  she  was  lifting  it  out 
of  its  niche,  when,  with  a  start  and  a  shudder,  she  dashed  it 
to  the  ground,  and  the  room  was  filled  with  the  odor  of  the 
spirit.  Without  staying  to  shut  up  the  bureau,  she  rushed  out 
of  the  room,  snatched  up  her  bonnet  and  mantle  which  lay  in 
the  dining-room,  and  hurried  out  of  the  house. 

Where  should  she  go  ?  In  what  place  would  this  demon 
that  had  re-entered  her  be  scared  back  again  ?  She  walked 
rapidly  along  the  street  in  the  direction  of  the  church.  She 
was  soon  at  the  gate  of  the  churchyard ;  she  passed  through 
it,  and  made  her  way  across  the  graves  to  a  spot  she  knew  — . 


380 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


a  spot  where  the  turf  had  been  stirred  not  long  before,  where 
a  tomb  was  to  be  erected  soon.  It  was  very  near  the  church 
wall,  on  the  side  which  now  lay  in  deep  shadow,  quite  shut  out 
from  the  rays  of  the  westering  sun  by  a  projecting  buttress. 

Janet  sat  down  on  the  ground.  It  was  a  sombre  spot.  A 
thick  hedge,  surmounted  by  elm-trees,  was  in  front  of  her;  a 
projecting  buttress  on  each  side.  But  she  wanted  to  shut  out 
even  these  objects.  Her  thick  crape  veil  was  down ;  but  she 
closed  her  eyes  behind  it,  and  pressed  her  hands  upon  them. 
She  wanted  to  summon  up  the  vision  of  the  past ;  she  wanted 
to  lash  the  demon  out  of  her  soul  with  the  stinging  memories 
of  the  bygone  misery  ;  she  wanted  to  renew  the  old  horror 
and  the  old  anguish,  that  she  might  throw  herself  with  the 
more  desperate  clinging  energy  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  where 
the  Divine  Sufferer  would  impart  divine  strength.  She  tried 
to  recall  those  first  bitter  moments  of  shame,  which  were  like 
the  shuddering  discovery  of  the  leper  that  the  dire  taint  is 
upon  him ;  the  deeper  and  deeper  lapse ;  the  on-coming  of 
settled  despair ;  the  awful  moments  by  the  bedside  of  her  self- 
maddened  husband.  And  then  she  tried  to  live  through,  with 
a  remembrance  made  more  vivid  by  that  contrast,  the  blessed 
hours  of  hope  and  joy  and  peace  that  had  come  to  her  of  late, 
since  her  whole  soul  had  been  bent  towards  the  attainment  of 
purity  and  holiness. 

But  now,  when  the  paroxysm  of  temptation  was  past,  dread 
and  despondency  began  to  thrust  themselves,  like  cold  heavy 
mists,  between  her  and  the  heaven  to  which  she  wanted  to 
look  for  light  and  guidance.  The  temptation  would  come 
again  —  that  rush  of  desire  might  overmaster  her  the  next 
time  —  she  would  slip  back  again  into  that  deep  slimy  pit 
from  which  she  had  been  once  rescued,  and  there  might  be  no 
deliverance  for  her  more.  Her  prayers  did  not  help  her,  for 
fear  predominated  over  trust ;  she  had  no  confidence  that  the 
aid  she  sought  would  be  given  ;  the  idea  of  her  future  fall 
had  grasped  her  mind  too  strongly.  Alone,  in  this  way,  she 
was  powerless.  If  she  could  see  Mr.  Tryan,  if  she  could  con¬ 
fess  all  to  him,  she  might  gather  hope  again.  She  must  see 
him ;  she  must  go  to  him. 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


381 

Janet  rose  from  the  ground,  and  walked  away  with  a  quick 
resolved  step  She  had  been  seated  there  a  long  while,  and 
the  sun  had  already  sunk.  It  was  late  for  her  to  walk  to 
Paddiford  and  go  to  Mr.  Tryan’s,  where  she  had  never  called 
before ;  but  there  was  no  other  way  of  seeing  him  that  even- 
ing,  and  she  could  not  hesitate  about  it.  She  walked  towards 
a  footpath  through  the  Helds,  which  would  take  her  to  Paddi¬ 
ford  without  obliging  her  to  go  through  the  town.  The  way 
was  rather  long,  but  she  preferred  it,  because  it  left  less  proba- 
bility  of  her  meeting  acquaintances,  and  she  shrank  from 
having  to  speak  to  any  one. 

The  evening  red  had  nearly  faded  by  the  time  Janet 
knocked  at  Mrs.  Wagstaff’s  door.  The  good  woman  looked 
surpiised  to  see  her  at  that  hour ;  but  Janet’s  mourning  weeds 
and  the  painful  agitation  of  her  face  quickly  brought  the 
second  thought,  that  some  urgent  trouble  had  sent  her  there. 

“  Mr-  Try an  ’s  just  come  in,”  she  said.  “  If  you  ’ll  step  into 
the  parlor,  I  ’ll  go  up  and  tell  him  you  ’re  here.  He  seemed 
very  tired  and  poorly.” 

At  another  time  Janet  would  have  felt  distress  at  the  idea 
that  she  was  disturbing  Mr.  Tryan  when  he  required  rest ;  but 
now  her  need  was  too  great  for  that :  she  could  feel  nothing 
but  a  sense  of  coming  relief,  when  she  heard  his  step  on  the 
stair  and  saw  him  enter  the  room. 

He  went  towards  her  with  a  look  of  anxiety,  and  said,  “  1 
fear  something  is  the  matter,  I  fear  you  are  in  trouble.” 

Then  poor  Janet  poured  forth  her  sad  tale  of  temptation 
and  despondency ;  and  even  while  she  was  confessing  she  felt 
half  her  burthen  removed.  The  act  of  confiding  in  human 
sympathy,  the  consciousness  that  a  fellow-being  was  listening 
to  her  with  patient  pity,  prepared  her  soul  for  that  stronger 
leap  by  which  faith  grasps  the  idea  of  the  Divine  sympathy. 
When  Mr.  Tryan  spoke  words  of  consolation  and  encourage* 
ment,  she  could  now  believe  the  message  of  mercy  5  the  water* 
■floods  that  had  threatened  to  overwhelm  her  rolled  back  again, 
and  life  once  more  spread  its  heaven -covered  space  before  her. 
She  had  been  unable  to  pray  alone  5  but  now  his  prayer  bore 
her  own  soul  along  with  it,  as  the  broad  tongue  of  flame  car- 


382  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

ries  upwards  in  its  vigorous  leap  the  little  flickering  fire  that 

could  hardly  keep  alight  by  itself. 

But  Mr.  Tryan  was  anxious  that  Janet  should  not  linger  out 
at  this  late  hour.  ^Vhen  he  saw  that  she  was  calmed,  he  said, 
;I  will  walk  home  with  you  now ;  we  can  talk  on  the  way.” 
But  Janet’s  mind  was  now  sufficiently  at  liberty  for  her  tc 
notice  the  signs  of  feverish  weariness  in  his  appearance,  and 
she  would  not  hear  of  causing  him  any  further  fatigue. 

“  No,  no,”  she  said,  earnestly,  “  you  will  pain  me  very  much 

_ _ indeed  you  will,  by  going  out  again  to-night  on  my  account 

There  is  no  real  reason  why  I  should  not  go  alone.  Anu 
when  he  persisted,  fearing  that  for  her  to  be  seen  out  so  late 
alone  might  excite  remark,  she  said  imploringly,  with  a  halt 
sob  in  her  voice,  aWhat  should  I  —  what  would  others  like 
me  do,  if  you  went  from  us  ?  Why  wijl  you  not  think  more 

of  that,  and  take  care  of  yourself  ?  ” 

He  had  often  had  that  appeal  made  to  him  before,  but  to¬ 
night  —  from  Janet’s  lips  —  it  seemed  to  have  a  new  force  for 
him,  and  he  gave  way.  At  first,  indeed,  he  only  did  so  on 
condition  that  she  would  let  Mrs.  Wagstaff  go  with  her;  but 
Janet  had  determined  to  walk  home  alone.  She  preferred 
solitude ;  she  wished  not  to  have  her  present  feelings  dis¬ 
tracted  by  any  conversation. 

So  she  went  out  into  the  dewy  starlight ;  and  as  Mr.  Tryan 
turned  away  from  her,  he  felt  a  stronger  wish  than  ever  that 
his  fragile  life  might  last  out  for  him  to  see  Janet’s  restora¬ 
tion  thoroughly  established  —  to  see  her  no  longer  fleeing, 
struggling,  clinging  up  the  steep  sides  of  a  precipice  whence 
she  might  be  any  moment  hurled  back  into  the  depths  of  de¬ 
spair,  but  walking  firmly  on  the  level  ground  of  habit.  He 
inwardly  resolved  that  nothing  but  a  peremptory  duty  should 
ever  take  him  from  Milby  —  that  he  would  not  cease  to  watch 
over  her  until  life  forsook  him. 

Janet  walked  on  quickly  till  she  turned  into  the  fields; 
then  she  slackened  her  pace  a  little,  enjoying  the  sense  of 
solitude  which  a  few  hours  before  had  been  intolerable  to  her. 
The  Divine  Presence  did  not  now  seem  far  off,  where  she  had 
not  wings  to  reach  it;  prayer  itself  seemed  superfluous  in 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  383 

those  moments  of  calm  trust.  The  temptation  which  had  so 
lately  made  her  shudder  before  the  possibilities  of  the  future, 
was  now  a  source  of  confidence  ;  for  had  she  not  been  deliv- 
ered  from  it  ?  Had  not  rescue  come  in  the  extremity  of 
danger  ?  Yes ;  Infinite  Love  was  caring  for  her.  She  felt 
like  a  little  child  whose  hand  is  firmly  grasped  by  its  father, 
as  its  fiail  limbs  make  their  way  over  the  rough  ground  j  if  it 
should  stumble,  the  father  will  not  let  it  go. 

That  walk  in  the  dewy  starlight  remained  forever  in 
Janet’s  memory  as  one  of  those  baptismal  epochs,  when  the 
soul,  dipped  in  the  sacred  waters  of  joy  and  peace,  rises  from 
them  with  new  energies,  with  more  unalterable  longings. 

When  she  reached  home  she  found  Mrs.  Pettifer  there, 
anxious  for  her  return.  After  thanking  her  for  coming,  Janet 
only  said,  “  I  have  been  to  Mr.  Tryan’s ;  I  wanted  to  speak 
to  him ;  ”  and  then  remembering  how  she  had  left  the  bureau 
and  papers,  she  went  into  the  back-room,  where,  apparently,  no 
one  had  been  sitice  she  quitted  it  5  for  there  lay  the  fragments 
of  glass,  and  the  room  was  still  full  of  the  hateful  odor.  How 
feeble  and  miserable  the  temptation  seemed  to  her  at  this 
moment !  She  rang  for  Kitty  to  come  and  pick  up  the  frag¬ 
ments  and  rub  the  floor,  while  she  herself  replaced  the  papers 
and  locked  up  the  bureau. 

The  next  morning,  when  seated  at  breakfast  with  Mrs. 
Pettifer,  Janet  said  — 

u  TV  hat  a  dreary  unhealthy-looking  place  that  is  where  Mr. 
Tryan  lives  !  I ’m  sure  it  must  be  very  bad  for  him  to  live  there. 
Do  you  know,  all  this  morning,  since  I ’ve  been  awake,  I  ?ve  been 
turning  over  a  little  plan  in  my  mind.  I  think  it  a  charming 
one  —  the  more,  because  you  are  concerned  in  it.” 

“  Why,  what  can  that  be  ?  ” 

u  You  know  that  house  on  the  Redhill  road  they  call  Holly 
Mount ;  it  is  shut  up  now.  That  is  Robert’s  house  ;  at  least, 
it  is  mine  now,  and  it  stands  on  one  of  the  healthiest  spots 
about  here.  Now,  I ’ve  been  settling  in  my  own  mind,  that  if 
a  dear  good  woman  of  my  acquaintance,  who  knows  how  to 
make  a  home  as  comfortable  and  cosy  as  a  bird’s-nest,  were  to 
take  up  her  abode  there,  and  have  Mr.  Tryan  as  a  lodger,  she 


384  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

would  be  doing  one  of  the  most  useful  deeds  in  all  her  useful 
life.” 

"  You  ’ve  such  a  way  of  wrapping  up  things  in  pretty  words. 
You  must  speak  plainer.'’ 

“  In  plain  words,  then,  I  should  like  to  settle  you  at  Holly 
Mount.  You  would  not  have  to  pay  any  more  rent  than 
where  you  are,  and  it  would  be  twenty  times  pleasanter  for 
you  than  living  up  that  passage  where  you  see  nothing  but  a 
brick  wall.  And  then,  as  it  is  not  far  from  Paddiford,  I  think 
Mr.  Tryan  might  be  persuaded  to  lodge  with  you,  instead  of 
in  that  musty  house,  among  dead  cabbages  and  smoky  cottages. 
I  know  you  would  like  to  have  him  live  with  you,  and  you 
would  be  such  a  mother  to  him.” 

“  To  be  sure  I  should  like  it ;  it  would  be  the  finest  thing  in 
the  world  for  me.  But  there  ’ll  be  furniture  wanted.  My 
little  bit  of  furniture  won’t  fill  that  house.” 

“  Oh,  I  can  put  some  m  out  of  this  house ;  it  is  too  full ; 
and  we  can  buy  the  rest.  They  tell  me  I ’m  to  have  more 
money  than  I  shall  know  what  to  do  with.” 

I  fin  almost  afraid,”  said  Mrs.  Pettifer,  doubtfully,  “  Mr. 
Tryan  will  hardly  be  persuaded.  He ’s  been  talked  to  so  much 
about  leaving  that  place ;  and  he  always  said  he  must  stay 
there  —  he  must  be  among  the  people,  and  there  was  no  other 
place  for  him  in  Paddiford.  It  cuts  me  to  the  heart  to  see 
him  getting  thinner  and  thinner,  and  I ’ve  noticed  him  quite 
short  o’  breath  sometimes.  Mrs.  Linnet  will  have  it,  Mrs. 
Wagstaff  half  poisons  him  with  bad  cooking.  X  don’t  know 
about  that,  but  he  can’t  have  many  comforts.  I  expect  he  ’ll 
break  down  all  of  a  sudden  some  day,  and  never  be  able  to 
preach  any  more.” 

“Well,  I  shall  try  my  skill  with  him  by-and-by,  I  shall  be 
very  cunning,  and  say  nothing  to  him  till  all  is  ready.  You 
and  I  and  mother,  when  she  comes  home,  will  set  to  wrork 
directly  and  get  the  house  m  order,  and  then  we  ’ll  get  you 
snugly  settled  in  it.  I  shall  see  Mr.  Pittman  to-day,  and  I 
will  tell  him  what  I  mean  to  do.  I  shall  say  I  wish  to  have 
you  for  a  tenant.  Everybody  knows  I ’m  very  fond  of  that 
naughty  person,  Mrs.  Pettifer ;  so  it  will  seem  the  most 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE. 


385 


natural  thing  in  the  world.  And  then  I  shall  by-and-by  point 
out  to  Mr.  lryan  that  he  will  be  doing  you  a  service  as  well 
as  himself  by  taking  up  his  abode  with  you.  I  think  I  can 
prevail  upon  him ;  for  last  night,  when  he  was  quite  bent  on 
coming  out  into  the  night  air,  I  persuaded  him  to  give  it  up.” 

u  Well,  I  only  hope  you  may,  my  dear.  I  don’t  desire  any¬ 
thing  better  than  to  do  something  towards  prolonging  Mr. 
Tryan’s  life,  for  I  Ve  sad  fears  about  him.” 

“  Don’t  speak  of  them  —  I  can’t  bear  to  think  of  them.  We 
will  only  think  about  getting  the  house  ready.  We  shall  be 
as  busy  as  bees.  How  we  shall  want  mother’s  clever  fingers  ! 
I  know  the  room  up-stairs  that  will  just  do  for  Mr.  Tryan’s 
study.  There  shall  be  no  seats  in  it  except  a  very  easy  chair 
and  a  very  easy  sofa,  so  that  he  shall  be  obliged  to  rest  him' 
self  when  he  comes  home.” 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

That  was  the  last  terrible  crisis  of  temptation  J anet  nad 
«o  pass  through.  The  good-will  of  her  neighbors,  the  helpful 
sympathy  of  the  friends  who  shared  her  religious  feelings, 
the  occupations  suggested  to  her  by  Mr.  Tryan,  concurred, 
with  her  strong  spontaneous  impulses  towards  works  of  love 
and  mercy,  to  fill  up  her  days  with  quiet  social  intercourse 
and  charitable  exertion.  Besides,  her  constitution,  naturally 
healthy  and  strong,  was  every  week  tending,  with  the  gather¬ 
ing  force  of  habit,  to  recover  its  equipoise,  and  set  her  free 
from  those  physical  solicitations  which  the  smallest  habitual 
vice  always  leaves  behind  it.  The  prisoner  feels  where  the 
iron  has  galled  him,  long  after  his  fetters  have  been  loosed. 

There  were  always  neighborly  visits  to  be  paid  and  received; 
and  as  the  months  wore  on,  increasing  familiarity  with  Janet’s 
present  self  began  to  efface,  even  from  minds  as  rigid  as  Mrs. 
von.  iv. 


386 


SCENES  OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


Phipps’s,  the  unpleasant  impressions  that  had  been  left  by 
recent  years.  Janet  was  recovering  the  popularity  which  her 
beauty  and  sweetness  of  nature  had  won  for  her  when  she 
was  a  girl ;  and  popularity,  as  every  one  knows,  is  the  most 
complex  and  self-multiplying  of  echoes.  Even  anti-Tryanite 
prejudice  could  not  resist  the  fact  that  Janet  Dempster  was  a 
changed  woman  —  changed  as  the  dusty,  bruised,  and  sun- 
withered  plant  is  changed  when  the  soft  rains  of  heaven  have 
fallen  on  it  —  and  that  this  change  was  due  to  Mr.  Tryan’s 
influence.  The  last  lingering  sneers  against  the  Evangelical 
curate  began  to  die  out ;  and  though  much  of  the  feeling  that 
had  prompted  them  remained  behind,  there  was  an  intimidat¬ 
ing  consciousness  that  the  expression  of  such  feeling  would 
not  be  effective  —  jokes  of  that  sort  had  ceased  to  tickle  the 
Milby  mind.  Even  Mr.  Budd  and  Mr.  Tomlinson,  when  they 
saw  Mr.  Tryan  passing  pale  and  worn  along  the  street,  had  a 
secret  sense  that  this  man  was  somehow  not  that  very  natural 
and  comprehensible  thing,  a  humbug — that,  in  fact,  it  was 
impossible  to  explain  him  from  the  stomach-and-pocket  point 
of  view.  Twist  and  stretch  their  theory  ^,s  they  might,  it 
would  not  fit  Mr.  Tryan ;  and  so,  with  that  remarkable  resem¬ 
blance  as  to  mental  processes  which  may  frequently  be  ob¬ 
served  to  exist  between  plain  men  and  philosophers,  they 
concluded  that  the  less  they  said  about  him  the  better. 

Among  all  Janet’s  neighborly  pleasures,  there  was  nothing 
she  liked  better  than  to  take  an  early  tea  at  the  White  House, 
and  to  stroll  with  Mr.  Jerome  round  the  old-fashioned  gar¬ 
den  and  orchard.  There  was  endless  matter  for  talk  between 
her  and  the  good  old  man,  for  Janet  had  that  genuine  delight 
in  human  fellowship  which  gives  an  interest  to  all  personal 
details  that  come  warm  from  truthful  lips ;  and,  besides,  they 
had  a  common  interest  in  good-natured  plans  for  helping  their 
poorer  neighbors.  One  great  object  of  Mr.  Jerome’s  charities 
was,  as  he  often  said,  “  to  keep  industrious  men  an’  women  off 
the  parish.  I ’d  rether  give  ten  shillin’  an’  help  a  man  to  stan’ 
on  his  own  legs,  nor  pay  half-a-crown  to  buy  him  a  parish 
crutch;  it’s  the  ruination  on  him  if  ne  once  goes  to  the  parish. 
I ’ve  see’d  many  a  time,  if  you  help  a  man  wi’  a  present  in  a 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


387 


neeborly  way,  it  sweetens  his  blood  — he  thinks  it  kind  on 
you ;  but  the  parish  shillins  turn  it  sour  —  he  niver  thinks  ’em 
enough.”  In  illustration  of  this  opinion  Mr.  Jerome  had  a 
large  store  of  details  about  such  persons  as  Jim  Hardy,  the 
coal-carrier,  “as  lost  his  hoss,”  and  Sally  Butts,  “as  hed  to  sell 
her  mangle,  though  she  was  as  decent  a  woman  as  need  to 
be to  the  hearing  of  which  details  Janet  seriously  inclined; 
and  you  would  hardly  desire  to  see  a  prettier  picture  than  the 
kind-faced,  white-haired  old  man  telling  these  fragments  of  his 
simple  experience  as  he  walked,  with  shoulders  slightly  bent, 
among  the  moss-roses  and  espalier  apple-trees,  while  Janet 
in  her  widow’s  cap,  her  dark  eyes  bright  with  interest,  went 
listening  by  his  side,  and  little  Lizzie,  with  her  nankin  bonnet 
hanging  down  her  back,  toddled  on  before  them.  Mrs.  Jerome 
usually  declined  these  lingering  strolls,  and  often  observed,  “I 
niver  see  the  like  to  Mr.  Jerome  when  he’s  got  Mrs.  Dempster 
to  talk  to ;  it  sinnifies  nothin’  to  him  whether  we ’ve  tea  at 
four  or  at  five  o’clock ;  he ’d  go  on  till  six,  if  you ’d  let  him 
alone  —  he’s  like  off  his  head.”  However,  Mrs.  Jerome  her¬ 
self  could  not  deny  that  Janet  was  a  very  pretty-spoken 
woman :  “  She  al’ys  says,  she  niver  gets  sich  pikelets  as  mine 
nowhere;  I  know  that  very  well  —  other  folks  buy  ’em  at 
shops  —  thick,  unwholesome  things,  you  might  as  well  eat  a 
sponge.” 

The  sight  of  little  Lizzie  often  stirred  in  Janet’s  mind  a 
sense  of  the  childlessness  which  had  made  a  fatal  blank  in  her 
life.  She  had  fleeting  thoughts  that  perhaps  among  her  hus¬ 
band’s  distant  relatives  there  might  be  some  children  whom 
she  could  help  to  bring  up,  some  little  girl  whom  she  might 
adopt ;  and  she  promised  herself  one  day  or  other  to  hunt  out 
a  second  cousin  of  his  —  a  married  woman,  of  whom  he  had 
k  st  sight  for  many  years. 

But  at  present  her  hands  and  heart  were  too  full  for  her  to 
carry  out  that  scheme.  To  her  great  disappointment,  her  pro¬ 
ject  of  settling  Mrs.  Pettifer  at  Holly  Mount  had  been  delayed 
by  the  discovery  that  some  repairs  were  necessary  in  order  to 
make  the  house  habitable,  ana  it  was  not  till  September  had 
set  in  that  she  had  the  -satisfaction  of  seeing  her  old  friend 


388 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


comfortably  installed,  and  the  rooms  destined  for  Mr.  Tryan 
looking  pretty  and  cosy  to  her  heart’s  content.  She  had  taken 
several  of  his  chief  friends  into  her  confidence,  and  they  were 
warmly  wishing  success  to  her  plan  for  inducing  him  to  quit 
poor  Mrs.  Wagstaff’s  dingy  house  and  dubious  cookery.  That 
he  should  consent  to  some  such  change  was  becoming  more 
and  more  a  matter  of  anxiety  to  his  hearers  ;  for  though  no 
more  decided  symptoms  were  yet  observable  in  him  than  in* 
creasing  emaciation,  a  dry  hacking  cough,  and  an  occasional 
shortness  of  breath,  it  was  felt  that  the  fulfilment  of  Mr 
Pratt’s  prediction  could  not  long  be  deferred,  and  that  thif 
obstinate  persistence  in  labor  and  self-disregard  must  soon  be 
peremptorily  cut  short  by  a  total  failure  of  strength.  Any 
hopes  that  the  influence  of  Mr.  Tryan’s  father  and  sister 
would  prevail  on  him  to  change  his  mode  of  life  —  that  they 
would  perhaps  come  to  live  with  him,  or  that  his  sister  at 
least  might  come  to  see  him,  and  that  the  arguments  which 
had  failed  from  other  lips  might  be  more  persuasive  from  hers 
—  were  now  quite  dissipated.  His  father  had  lately  had  an 
attack  of  paralysis,  and  could  not  spare  his  only  daughter’s 
tendance.  On  Mr.  Tryan’s  return  from  a  visit  to  his  father, 
Miss  Linnet  was  very  anxious  to  know  whether  his  sister  had 
not  urged  him  to  try  change  of  air.  From  his  answers  she 
gathered  that  Miss  Tryan  wished  him  to  give  up  his  curacy 
and  travel,  or  at  least  go  to  the  south  Devonshire  coast. 

“ And  why  will  you  not  do  so?”  Miss  Linnet  said;  “you 
might  come  back  to  us  well  and  strong,  and  have  many  years 
of  usefulness  before  you.” 

“No,”  he  answered  quietly,  “I. think  people  attach  more 
importance  to  such  measures  than  is  warranted*  I  don’t  see 
any  good  end  that  is  to  be  served  by  going  to  die  at  Nice, 
instead  of  dying  amongst  one’s  friends  and  one’s  work.  I  can¬ 
not  leave  Milby  —  at  least  I  will  not  leave  it  voluntarily.” 

But  though  he  remained  immovable  on  this  point,  he  had 
been  compelled  to  give  up  his  afternoon  service  on  the  Sunday, 
and  to  accept  Mr.  Parry’s  offer  of  aid  in  the  evening  service, 
as  well  as  to  curtail  his  week-day  labors ;  and  he  had  even 
written  to  Mr.  Prendergast  to  request  that  he  would  appoint 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


389 


another  curate  to  the  Paddiford  district,  on  the  understanding 
that  the  new  curate  should  receive  the  salary,  but  that  Mr. 
Tryan  should  co-operate  with  him  as  long  as  he  was  able.  The 
hopefulness  which  is  an  almost  constant  attendant  on  con¬ 
sumption,  had  not  the  effect  of  deceiving  him  as  to  the  nature 
of  his  malady,  or  of  making  him  look  forward  to  ultimate 
recovery.  He  believed  himself  to  be  consumptive,  and  he  had 
not  yet  felt  any  desire  to  escape  the  early  death  which  he  had 
for  some  time  contemplated  as  probable.  Even  diseased  hopes 
will  take  their  direction  from  the  strong  habitual  bias  of  the 
mind,  and  to  Mr.  Tryan  death  had  for  years  seemed  nothing 
else  than  the  laying  down  of  a  burthen,  under  which  he  some 
times  felt  himself  fainting.  He  was  only  sanguine  about  his 
powers  of  work :  he  flattered  himself  that  what  he  was  unable 
to  do  one  week  he  should  be  equal  to  the  next,  and  he  would 
not  admit  that  in  desisting  from  any  part  of  his  labor,  he  was 
renouncing  it  permanently.  He  had  lately  delighted  Mr. 
Jerome  by  accepting  his  long-proffered  loan  of  the  “  little 
chacenut  horse  ;  ”  and  he  found  so  much  benefit  from  substi¬ 
tuting  constant  riding  exercise  for  walking,  that  he  began  to 
think  he  should  soon  be  able  to  resume  some  of  the  work  he 
had  dropped. 

That  was  a  happy  afternoon  for  Janet,  when,  after  exerting 
herself  busily  for  a  week  with  her  mother  and  Mrs.  Pettifer, 
she  saw  Holly  Mount  looking  orderly  and  comfortable  from 
attic  to  cellar.  It  was  an  old  red  brick  house,  with  two  gables 
in  front,  and  two  clipped  holly-trees  flanking  the  garden-gate  ; 
a  simple,  homely-looking  place,  that  quiet  people  might  easily 
get  fond  of ;  and  now  it  was  scoured  and  polished  and  carpeted 
and  furnished  so  as  to  look  really  snug  within.  When  there 
was  nothing  more  to  be  done,  Janet  delighted  herself  with 
contemplating  Mr.  Tryan’s  study,  first  sitting  down  in  the 
easy-cliair,  and  then  lying  for  a  moment  on  the  sofa,  that  she 
might  have  a  keener  sense  of  the  repose  he  would  get  from 
those  well-stuffed  articles  of  furniture,  which  she  had  gone  to 
Rotherby  on  purpose  to  choose. 

“Now,  mother,”  she  said,  when  she  had  finished  her  survey, 
“  you  have  done  your  work  as  well  as  any  fairy-mother  or  god- 


390  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

mother  that  ever  turned  a  pumpkin  into  a  coach  and  horses. 
You  stay  and  have  tea  cosily  with  Mrs.  Pettifer  while  I  go  to 
Mis.  Linnet’s.  I  want  to  tell  Mary  and  Rebecca  the  good 
news,  that  I  ’ve  got  the  exciseman  to  promise  that  he  will  take 
Mrs.  Wagstaff  s  lodgings  when  Mr.  Tryan  leaves.  They  ’ll  be 
so  pleased  to  hear  it,  because  they  thought  he  would  make  her 
poverty  an  objection  to  his  leaving  her.” 

But,  my  dear  child,”  said  Mrs.  Raynor,  whose  face,  always 
calm,  was  now  a  happy  one,  “  have  a  cup  of  tea  with  us  first. 
You  ’ll  perhaps  miss  Mrs.  Linnet’s  tea-time.” 

“No,  I  feel  too  excited  to  take  tea  yet.  I’m  like  a  child 
with  a  new  baby-house.  Walking  in  the  air  will  do  me  good.” 

So  she  set  out.  Holly  Mount  was  about  a  mile  from  that 
outskirt  of  Paddiford  Common  where  Mrs.  Linnet’s  house 
stood  nestled  among  its  laburnums,  lilacs,  and  syringas. 
Janet’s  way  thither  lay  for  a  little  while  along  the  highroad, 
and  then  led  her  into  a  deep-rutted  lane,  which  wound  through 
a  flat  tract  of  meadow  and  pasture,  while  in  front  lay  smokv 
Paddiford,  and  away  to  the  left  the  mother-town  of  Milby. 
There  was  no  line  of  silvery  willows  marking  the  course  of  a 
stream  —  no  group  of  Scotch  firs  with  their  trunks  reddening 
in  the  level  sunbeams  — nothing  to  break  the  flowerless  monot¬ 
ony  of  grass  and  hedgerow  but  an  occasional  oak  or  elm,  and 
a  few  cows  sprinkled  here  and  there.  A  very  commonplace 
scene,  indeed.  But  what  scene  was  ever  commonplace  in  the 
descending  sunlight,  when  color  has  awakened  from  its  noon- 
day  sleep,  and  the  long  shadows  awe  us  like  a  disclosed  pres¬ 
ence  ?  Above  all,  what  scene  is  commonplace  to  the  eye  that 

is  filled  with  serene  gladness,  and  brightens  all  things  with  its 
own  joy  ? 

And  Janet  just  now  was  very  happy.  As  she  walked  along 
the  rough  lane  with  a  buoyant  step,  a  half  smile  of  innocent, 
kindly  triumph  played  about  her  mouth.  She  was  delighting 
beforehand  in  the  anticipated  success  of  her  persuasive  power 
and  for  the  time  her  painful  anxiety  about  Mr.  Tryan’s  health 
was  thrown  into  abeyance.  But  she  had  not  gone  far  along 
the  lane  before  she  heard  the  sound  of  a  horse  advancing  at  a 
walking  pace  behind  her.  Without  looking  back,  she  turned 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


891 

aside  to  make  way  for  it  between  the  ruts,  and  did  not  notice 
that  for  a  moment  it  had  stopped,  and  had  then  come  on  with 
a  slightly  quickened  pace.  In  less  than  a  minute  she  heard  a 
well-known  voice  say,  «  Mrs.  Dempster  ;  ”  and,  turning,  saw 
Mr.  Tryan  close  to  her,  holding  his  horse  by  the  bridle.  It 
seemed  very  natural  to  her  that  he  should  be  there.  Her  mind 
was  so  full  of  his  presence  at  that  moment,  that  the  actual 
sight  of  him  was  only  like  a  more  vivid  thought,  and  she 
behaved,  as  we  are  apt  to  do  when  feeling  obliges  us  to  be 
genuine,  with  a  total  forgetfulness  of  polite  forms.  She  only 
looked  at  him  with  a  slight  deepening  of  the  smile  that  was 
already  on  her  face.  He  said  gently,  “  Take  my  arm  ;  ”  and 
they  walked  on  a  little  way  in  silence. 

It  was  he  who  broke  it.  “  You  are  going  to  Paddiford,  I 
suppose  ?  ” 

The  question  recalled  Janet  to  the  consciousness  that  this 
was  an  unexpected  opportunity  for  beginning  her  work  of  per¬ 
suasion,  and  that  she  was  stupidly  neglecting  it. 

“Yes,”  she  said,  “I  was  going  to  Mrs.  Linnet's.  I  knew 
Miss  Linnet  would  like  to  hear  that  our  friend  Mrs.  Pettifer 
is  quite  settled  now  in  her  new  house.  She  is  as  fond  of  Mrs. 
P ettifer  as  I  am  —  almost ;  I  won’t  admit  that  any  one  loves  her 
quite  as  well,  for  no  one  else  has  such  good  reason  as  I  have. 
But  now  the  dear  woman  wants  a  lodger,  for  you  know  she 
can’t  afford  to  live  in  so  large  a  house  by  herself.  But  I  knew 
when  I  persuaded  her  to  go  there  that  she  would  be  sure  to 
get  one  —  she ’s  such  a  comfortable  creature  to  live  with  ;  and 
I  did  n’t  like  her  to  spend  all  the  rest  of  her  days  up  that  dull 
passage,  being  at  every  one’s  beck  and  call  who  wanted  to 
make  use  of  her.” 

“Yes,”  said  Mr.  Tryan,  “I  quite  understand  your  feeling; 

I  don’t  wonder  at  your  strong  regard  for  her.” 

“  Well,  but  now  I  want  her  other  friends  to  second  me. 
There  she  is,  with  three  rooms  to  let,  ready  furnished,  every¬ 
thing  in  order ;  and  I  know  some  one,  who  thinks  as  well  of 
her  as  I  do,  and  who  would  be  doing  good  all  round  —  to 
every  one  that  knows  him,  as  well  as  to  Mrs.  Pettifer,  if  he 
would  go  to  live  with  her.  He  would  leave  some  uncom* 


392 


SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


fortable  lodgings,  which  another  person  is  already  coveting 
and  would  take  immediately  j  and  he  would  go  to  breathe  pure 
air  at  Holly  Mount,  and  gladden  Mrs.  Pettifer’s  heart  by 
letting  her  wait  on  him ;  and  comfort  all  his  friends,  who  are 
quite  miserable  about  him.” 

Mr.  Tryan  saw  it  all  in  a  moment —  he  saw  that  it  had  all 
been  done  for  his  sake.  He  could  not  be  sorry ;  he  could  not 
say  no;  he  could  not  resist  the  sense  that  life  had  a  new 
sweetness  for  him,  and  that  he  should  like  it  to  be  prolonged 
a  little  —  only  a  little,  for  the  sake  of  feeling  a  stronger  secu¬ 
rity  about  J anet.  When  she  had  finished  speaking,  she  looked 
at  him  with  a  doubtful,  inquiring  glance.  He  was  not  looking 
at  her ;  his  eyes  were  cast  downwards ;  but  the  expression  of 
his  face  encouraged  her,  and  she  said,  in  a  half-playful  tone 
of  entreaty  - — 

“You  will  go  and  live  with  her?  I  know  you  will.  You 
will  come  back  with  me  now  and  see  the  house.” 

He  looked  at  her  then,  and  smiled.  There  is  an  unspeak¬ 
able  blending  of  sadness  and  sweetness  in  the  smile  of  a  face 
sharpened  and  paled  by  slow  consumption.  That  smile  of 
Mr.  Tryan’s  pierced  poor  Janet’s  heart :  she  felt  in  it  at  once 
the  assurance  of  grateful  affection  and  the  prophecy  of  coming 
death.  Her  tears  rose  ;  they  turned  round  without  speaking, 
and  went  back  again  along  the  lane. 


CHAPTER  XXVEL 

In  less  than  a  week  Mr.  Tryan  was  settled  at  Holly  Mount, 
t*nd  there  was  not  one  of  his  many  attached  hearers  who  did 
not  sincerely  rejoice  at  the  event. 

The  autumn  that  year  was  bright  and  warm,  and  at  the 
beginning  of  October,  Mr.  Walsh,  the  new  curate,  came. 
Che  mild  weather,  the  relaxation  from  excessive  work,  and 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE. 


393 


perhaps  another  benignant  influence,  had  for  a  few  weeks  a 
visibly  favorable  effect  on  Mr.  Tryan.  At  least  he  began 
to  feel  new  hopes,  which  sometimes  took  the  guise  of  new 
strength.  He  thought  of  the  cases  in  which  consumptive 
patients  remain  nearly  stationary  for  years,  without  suffering 
so  as  to  make  their  life  burthensome  to  themselves  or  to 
others ;  and  he  began  to  struggle  with  a  longing  that  it  might 
be  so  with  him.  He  struggled  with  it,  because  he  felt  it  to 
be  an  indication  that  earthly  affection  was  beginning  to  have 
too  strong  a  hold  on  him,  and  he  prayed  earnestly  for  more 
perfect  submission,  and  for  a  more  absorbing  delight  in  the 
Divine  Presence  as  the  chief  good.  He  was  conscious  that  he 
did  not  wish  for  prolonged  life  solely  that  he  might  reclaim 
the  wanderers  and  sustain  the  feeble :  he  was  conscious  of  a 
new  yearning  for  those  pure  human  joys  which  he  had  volun- 
tarily  and  determinedly  banished  from  his  life  —  for  a  draught 
of  that  deep  affection  from  which  he  had  been  cut  off  by  a 
dark  chasm  of  remorse.  For  now,  that  affection  was  within 
his  reach ;  he  saw  it  there,  like  a  palm-shadowed  well  in  the 
desert ;  he  could  not  desire  to  die  in  sight  of  it. 

And  so  the  autumn  rolled  gently  by  in  its  u  calm  decay.” 
Until  November,  Mr.  Tryan  continued  to  preach  occasionally, 
to  ride  about  visiting  his  flock,  and  to  look  in  at  his  schools ; 
but  his  growing  satisfaction  in  Mr.  Walsh  as  his  successor 
saved  him  from  too  eager  exertion  and  from  worrying  anxie¬ 
ties.  Janet  was  with  him  a  great  deal  now,  for  she  saw  that 
he  liked  her  to  read  to  him  in  the  lengthening  evenings,  and 
it  became  the  rule  for  her  and  her  mother  to  have  tea  at  Holly 
Mount,  where,  with  Mrs.  Pettifer,  and  sometimes  another 
friend  or  two,  they  brought  Mr.  Tryan  the  unaccustomed 
enjoyment  of  companionship  by  his  own  fireside. 

Janet  did  not  share  his  new  hopes,  for  she  was  not  only  in 
the  habit  of  hearing  Mr.  Pratt’s  opinion  that  Mr.  Tryan  could 
hardly  stand  out  through  the  winter,  but  she  also  knew  that 
it  was  shared  by  Dr.  Madeley  of  Rotherby,  whom,  at  her 
request,  he  had  consented  to  call  in.  It  was  not  necessary  or 
desirable  to  tell  Mr.  Tryan  what  was  revealed  by  the  stetlio 
scope,  but  Janet  knew  the  worst. 


394  SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

She  felt  no  rebellion  under  this  prospect  of  bereavement, 
but  rather  a  quiet  submissive  sorrow.  Gratitude  that  his  in¬ 
fluence  and  guidance  had  been  given  her,  even  if  only  for  a 
little  while  —  gratitude  that  she  was  permitted  to  be  with  him, 
to  take  a  deeper  and  deeper  impress  from  daily  communion 
with  him,  to  be  something  to  him  in  these  last  months  of  his 
life,  was  so  strong  in  her  that  it  almost  silenced  regret.  Janet 
had  lived  through  the  great  tragedy  of  woman’s  life.  Her 
keenest  personal  emotions  had  been  poured  forth  in  her  early 
love  her  wounded  affection  with  its  years  of  anguish  —  her 
agony  of  unavailing  pity  over  that  deathbed  seven  months 
ago.  The  thought  of  Mr.  Tryan  was  associated  for  her  with 
repose  from  that  conflict  of  emotion,  with  trust  in  the  un¬ 
changeable,  with  the  influx  of  a  power  to  subdue  self.  To 
have  been  assured  of  his  sympathy,  his  teaching,  his  help,  all 
through  her  life,  would  have  been  to  her  like  a  heaven  already 
begun  —  a  deliverance  from  fear  and  danger;  but  the  time 
was  not  yet  come  for  her  to  be  conscious  that  the  hold  he  had 
on  her  heart  was  any  other  than  that  of  the  heaven-sent  friend 
who  had  come  to  her  like  the  angel  in  the  prison,  and  loosed 
her  bonds,  and  led  her  by  the  hand  till  she  could  look  back 
on  the  dreadful  doors  that  had  once  closed  her  in. 

Before  November  was  over  Mr.  Tryan  had  ceased  to  go  out. 
A  new  crisis  had  come  on:  the  cough  had  changed  its  charac¬ 
ter,  and  the  worst  symptoms  developed  themselves  so  rapidly 
that  Mi.  Pratt  began  to  think  the  end  would  arrive  sooner 
than  he  had  expected.  Janet  became  a  constant  attendant  on 
him  now,  and  no  one  could  feel  that  she  was  performing  any¬ 
thing  but  a  sacred  office.  She  made  Holly  Mount  her  home, 
and,  with  her  mother  and  Mrs.  Pettifer  to  help  her,  she  filled 
the  painful  days  and  nights  with  every  soothing  influence  that 
caie  and  tenderness  could  devise.  There  were  many  visitors 
to  the  sick-room,  led  thither  by  venerating  affection;  and 
there  could  hardly  be  one  who  did  not  retain  in  after-years  a 
vivid  remembrance  of  the  scene  there  — of  the  pale  wasted 
form  in  the  easy-chair  (for  he  sat  up  to  the  last),  of  the  gray 
eyes  so  full  even  yet  of  inquiring  kindness,  as  the  thin,  almost 
transparent  hand  was  held  out  to  give  the  pressure  of  wel- 


JANET’S  REPENTANCE.  395 

come  ;  ana  of  the  sweet  woman,  too,  whose  dark  watchful  eyes 
detected  every  want,  and  who  supplied  the  want  with  a  ready 

hand. 

There  were  others  who  would  have  had  the  heart  and  the 
skill  to  fill  this  place  by  Mr.  Tryan’s  side,  and  who  would  have 
accepted  it  as  an  honor ;  but  they  could  not  help  feeling  that 
God  had  given  it  to  Janet  by  a  train  of  events  which  were  too 
impressive  not  to  shame  all  jealousies  into  silence. 

That  sad  history  which  most  of  us  know  too  well,  lasted 
more  than  three  months.  He  was  too  feeble  and  suffering 
for  the  last  few  weeks  to  see  any  visitors,  but  he  still  sat  up 
through  the  day.  The  strange  hallucinations  of  the  disease 
which  had  seemed  to  take  a  more  decided  hold  on  him  just  at 
the  fatal  crisis,  and  had  made  him  think  he  was  perhaps  get¬ 
ting  better  at  the  very  time  when  death  had  begun  to  hurry 
on  with  more  rapid  movement,  had  now  given  way,  and  left 
him  calmly  conscious  of  the  reality.  One  afternoon  near  the 
end  of  February,  Janet  was  moving  gently  about  the  room,  in 
the  fire-lit  dusk,  arranging  some  things  that  would  be  wanted 
in  the  night.  There  was  no  one  else  in  the  room,  and  his 
eyes  followed  her  as  she  moved  with  the  firm  grace  natural  to 
her,  while  the  bright  fire  every  now  and  then  lit  up  her  face, 
and  gave  an  unusual  glow  to  its  dark  beauty.  Even  to  follow 
her  in  this  way  with  his  eyes  was  an  exertion  that  gave  a 
painful  tension  to  his  face ;  while  she  looked  like  an  image  of 
life  and  strength. 

“  Janet,”  he  said  presently,  in  his  faint  voice  —  he  always 
called  her  Janet  now.  In  a  moment  she  was  close  to  him, 
bending  over  him.  He  opened  his  hand  as  he  looked  up  at 
her,  and  she  placed  hers  within  it. 

“Janet,”  he  said  again,  “you  will  have  a  long  while  to  live 
after  I  am  gone.” 

A  sudden  pang  of  fear  shot  through  her.  She  thought  he 
felt  himself  dying,  and  she  sank  on  her  knees  at  his  feet,  hold¬ 
ing  his  hand,  while  she  looked  up  at  him,  almost  breathless. 

'But  you  will  not  feel  the  need  of  me  as  you  have  done. 

.  .  .  You  have  a  sure  trust  in  God  ...  I  shall  not  look  for 
you  in  vain  at  the  last.” 


896 


SCENES  OP  CLERICAL  LIFE. 


“No  .  .  ,  no  .  ,  .  I  shall  be  there  .  .  .  God  will  not  fo* 

sake  me.” 

She  could  hardly  utter  the  words,  though  she  was  not  weep¬ 
ing.  She  was  waiting  with  trembling  eagerness  for  anything 
else  he  might  have  to  say. 

“  Let  us  kiss  each  other  before  we  part.” 

She  lifted  up  her  face  to  his,  and  the  full  life-breathing  lips 
met  the  wasted  dying  ones  in  a  sacred  kiss  of  promise. 


CHAPTER  XXVm. 

It  soon  came  —  the  blessed  day  of  deliverance,  the  sad  da} 
of  beieavement ;  and  in  the  second  week  of  March  they  car¬ 
ried  him  to  the  grave.  He  was  buried  as  he  had  desired; 
there  was  no  hearse,  no  mourning-coach ;  his  coffin  was  borne 
by  twelve  of  his  humble  hearers,  who  relieved  each  other  by 
turns.  But  he  was  followed  by  a  long  procession  of  mourning 
friends,  women  as  well  as  men. 

Slowly,  amid  deep  silence,  the  dark  stream  passed  along 
Orchard  Street,  where  eighteen  months  before  the  Evangelical 
curate  had  been  saluted  with  hootings  and  hisses.  Mr.  Jerome 
and  Mr.  Landor  were  the  eldest  pall-bearers ;  and  behind  the 
coffin,  led  by  Mr.  Tryan’s  cousin,  walked  Janet,  in  quiet  sub¬ 
missive  sorrow.  She  could  not  feel  that  he  was  quite  gone 
from  her ;  the  unseen  world  lay  so  very  near  her  —  it  held  all 
that  had  ever  stirred  the  depths  of  anguish  and  joy  within  her. 

It  was  a  cloudy  morning,  and  had  been  raining  when  they 
left  Holly  Mount ;  but  as  they  walked,  the  sun  broke  out,  and 
the  clouds  were  rolling  off  in  large  masses  when  they  entered 
the  churchyard,  and  Mr.  Walsh’s  voice  was  heard  saying,  “I 
am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life.”  The  faces  were  not  hard 
at  this  funeral  5  the  burial-service  was  not  a  hollow  form. 

ery  heait  there  was  filled  with  the  memory  of  a  man  who, 
through  a  self-sacrificing  life  and  in  a  painful  death,  had  been 


JANET'S  REPENTANCE.  897 

Sustained  by  the  faith  which  fills  that  form  with  breath  and 
substance. 

When  Janet  left  the  grave,  she  did  not  return  to  Holly 
Mount;  she  went  to  her  home  in  Orchard  Street,  where  her 
mother  was  waiting  to  receive  her.  She  said  quite  calmly, 
t(  Let  us  walk  round  the  garden,  mother."  And  they  walked 
round  in  skence,  with  their  hands  clasped  together,  looking  at 
the  golden  crocuses  bright  in  the  spring  sunshine.  Janet  felt 
a  deep  stillness  within.  She  thirsted  for  no  pleasure ;  she 
craved  no  worldly  good.  She  saw  the  years  to  come  stretch 
before  her  like  an  autumn  afternoon,  filled  with  resigned  mem¬ 
ory.  Life  to  her  could  never  more  have  any  eagerness  ;  it  was 
a  solemn  service  of  gratitude  and  patient  effort.  She  walked 
in  the  piesence  of  unseen  witnesses  —  of  the  Divine  love  that 
had  rescued  her,  of  the  human  love  that  waited  for  its  eternal 
repose  until  it  had  seen  her  endure  to  the  end. 

Janet  is  living  still.  Her  black  hair  is  gray,  and  her  step  is 
no  longer  buoyant;  but  the  sweetness  of  her  smile  remains, 
the  love  is  not  gone  from  her  eyes ;  and  strangers  sometimes 
ask,  Who  is  that  noble-looking  elderly  woman  that  walks  about 
holding  a  little  boy  by  the  hand  ?  The  little  boy  is  the  son  of 
Janet's  adopted  daughter,  and  Janet  in  her  old  age  has  chil¬ 
dren  about  her  knees,  and  loving  young  arms  round  her  neck. 

There  is  a  simple  gravestone  in  Milby  Churchyard,  telling 
that  in  this  spot  lie  the  remains  of  Edgar  Tryan,  for  two  years 
officiating  curate  at  the  Paddiford  Chapel-of-Ease,  in  this  par¬ 
ish.  It  is  a  meagre  memorial,  and  tells  you  simply  that  the 
man  who  lies  there  took  upon  him,  faithfully  or  unfaithfully, 
the  office  of  guide  and  instructor  to  his  fellow-men. 

But  there  is  another  memorial  of  Edgar  Tryan,  which  bears  a 
fuller  record:  it  is  Janet  Dempster,  rescued  from  self-despair, 
strengthened  with  divine  hopes,  and  now  looking  back  on  years 
of  purity  and  helpful  labor.  The  man  who  has  left  such  a 
memorial  behind  him,  must  have  been  one  whose  heart  beat 
with  tine  compassion,  and  whose  lips  were  moved  by  fervent 
faith- 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT, 


. 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Mary  Ann  Evans  was  born  at  Arbury  Farm,  parish  of 
Fhilvers  Colton,  Warwickshire,  England,  on  November  22. 
1819.  Her  father,  Robert  Evans,  was  a  farmer,  surveyor,  and 
land  agent,  a  man  of  judgment  and  wide  knowledge  in  his  own 
ealling,  and  of  a  marked  reputation  for  probity  and  honesty 
of  character.  “  He  raised  himself,”  says  his  daughter,  “  from 
being  an  artisan  to  be  a  man  whose  extensive  knowledge  in 
very  varied  practical  departments  made  his  services  valued 
through  several  counties.  He  had  large  knowledge  of  build¬ 
ing,  of  mines,  of  plantations,  of  various  branches  of  valuation 
and  measurement  * —  of  all  that  is  essential  to  the  management 
of  large  estates.  He  was  held  by  those  competent  to  judge 
as  unique  among  land-agents  for  his  manifold  knowledge  and 
experience.”  His  character  is  very  well  represented  in  Adam 
Bede  and  Caleb  Garth,  for  he  was  quiet,  possessed  of  great 
strength,  and  had  a  love  for  reading.  His  wife  was  shrewd 
and  sharp,  a  diligent  housewife,  and  given  to  sarcastic  speech. 
There  was  much  of  the  Mrs.  Poyser  in  her  nature,  and  she 
was  as  nervously  anxious  as  she  was  hard-working ;  but  she 
has  been  described  as  “  a  very  serious,  earnest-minded  woman, 
anxiously  concerned  for  the  moral  and  religious  training  of 
her  children.” 

TV  hen  Mary  Ann  was  four  months  old  the  family  moved  to 
Griff  House,  on  the  same  estate  as  Arbury  Farm.  The  mother 
was  ailing,  and  the  little  girl  became  the  companion  of  her 
brother  Isaac,  and  with  him  she  spent  much  of  her  time  out 
of  doors.  So  much  did  she  love  play,  that  she  was  slow  in 
vol.  iv.  26 


402 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


learning  to  read,  although  she  was  sent  to  a  dame  school  as 
early  as  was  possible.  At  the  age  of  five  she  went  to  Miss 
Lathom’s  school  at  Attleborough,  where  she  remained  for  three 
or  four  years.  A  not  unhappy  life  she  passed  at  this  school, 
among  girls  much  older  than  herself,  but  with  the  privilege 
of  being  at  home  on  the  Saturdays.  Shy  and  sensitive,  she 
had  a  great  dread  of  the  darkness,  and  suffered  much  there¬ 
from  ;  and  yet  she  had  an  earnest  conviction  that  she  was 
destined  to  be  somebody  in  the  world.  There  was  a  strong 
need  in  her  character  for  love,  and  for  some  one  to  lean 
on ;  and  in  a  boarding-school  this  want  could  not  be  well 
supplied. 

This  life  was  continued,  however,  for  at  the  age  of  eight 
years  she  was  sent  to  Miss  Wallington’s  school  at  Nuneaton, 
with  her  sister,  who  wras  five  years  older.  Here  her  school 
work  became  far  more  attractive,  for  she  made  such  advance 
in  her  studies  as  to  become  thoroughly  interested  in  their  pur¬ 
suit.  The  opportunity  for  reading  was  increased,  and  that 
became  a  passion.  Her  love  for  books  began  when  a  mere 
child,  but  now  she  was  absorbed  in  the  pages  of  Scott,  Lamb, 
and  Defoe.  At  this  time,  from  her  tenth  to  her  thirteenth 
year  she  had  an  eager  love  of  knowledge,  quickly  possessed 
herself  of  her  lessons,  and  was  greatly  absorbed  in  the  subject 
of  religion.  When  she  was  thirteen  she  went  to  the  school 
of  the  Misses  Franklin  at  Coventry,  where  she  remained  for 
three  years.  Though  she  had  shown  no  precocity  whatever 
as  a  child,  yet  she  had  slowly  grown  to  be  an  enthusiastic 
student,  of  a  quick  mind,  and  with  a  great  capacity  for  absorb¬ 
ing  knowledge.  In  Coventry  her  ability  at  once  made  itself 
manifest,  and  she  was  soon  at  the  head  of  the  school.  In 
English  composition,  music,  and  the  modern  languages  she 
showed  superior  powers.  To  the  Misses  Franklin  she  always 
felt  that  she  was  greatly  indebted  for  their  friendship  and 
their  sympathetic  help  in  her  studies.  They  were  the  daugh¬ 
ters  of  a  Baptist  clergyman,  and  devoutly  interested  in  their 
own  form  of  faith.  With  her  great  need  of  sympathy  and 
companionship,  Mary  Ann  was  drawn  to  their  beliefs  and 
conformed  for  a  time  to  their  interpretation  of  religion.  She 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT.  403 

did  not  forsake  the  Church  of  England,  to  which  her  father 

was  strongly  attached  ;  but  she  became  thoroughly  evangelical 
in  her  tendencies. 

She  left  school  in  1835,  and  in  1836  her  mother  died.  She 
had  seen  little  of  her  mother  since  she  was  a  mere  child,  but 
she  was  warmly  attached  to  her,  and  the  loss  was  keenly 'felt 
When  she  was  eighteen  her  sister  Christina  was  married,  and 
the  care  of  the  house  fell  upon  Mary  Ann.  With  a  firm  sense 
of  duty  she  gave  herself  to  this  employment,  performing  the 
household  tasks  faithfully,  though  with  a  constant  regret  that 
she  could  not  give  more  time  to  her  books.  Much  of  her  time 
at  this  period,  as  well  as  before  and  after,  until  she  went  to 
live  in  London,  was  spent  in  visiting  the  poor.  She  organized 
clothing-clubs,  and  in  many  ways  showed  her  love  of  the  good 
work  of  charity.  Indeed,  she  won  an  enviable  reputation 
among  her  friends  for  her  eager  interest  in  labors  of  this 
kind.  Her  love  of  books  did  not  grow  less,  however ;  and  we 
soon  find  her  taking  up  the  study  of  German  and  Italian 
and  devoting  much  time  to  music.  Her  reading  went  forward 
With  good  purpose ;  and  the  books  read  came  to  be  more  and 
more  those  of  solid  worth.  In  a  letter  written  in  1838  she 
speaks  of  a  serious  fault  in  her  reading,  growing  out  of  her 
eager  desire  to  become  acquainted  with  every  book  within  her 
reach.  “  I  am  generally  in  the  same  predicament  with  books 
as  a  glutton  with  his  feast,  hurrying  through  one  course  that 
I  may  be  in  time  for  the  next,  and  so  not  relishing  or  digest¬ 
ing  either ;  not  a  very  elegant  illustration,  but  the  best  my 
organs  of  ideality  and  comparison  will  furnish  just  now.” 

A  poem  of  hers  was  published  in  1840,  written  the  year 
before,  and  thoroughly  evangelical  in  tone.  She  seems  to 
have  written  other  verses  at  this  time,  but  no  others  have 
been  brought  to  light.  Soon  after  she  was  engaged  in  prepar¬ 
ing  a  chart  of  ecclesiastical  history,  which  she  proposed  to 
publish  ;  but  the  publication  of  one  prepared  by  another  hand 
caused  her  to  give  up  this  undertaking.  A  visit  to  London 
in  August,  1838,  and  a  journey  into  Derbyshire  and  Stafford¬ 
shire  with  her  father  in  June,  1840,  varied  the  monotony  of 
her  household  cares  and  her  studies. 


404  >.  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

In  Marcii,  1841,  the  home  at  Griff  was  given  np,  and  fathe* 
and  daughter  moved  to  a  house  on  the  Foleshill  road,  about 
one  mile  from  Coventry.  This  event  was  one  of  great  im¬ 
portance  in  the  life  of  Mary  Ann  Evans,  for  it  brought  her 
greater  opportunities  of  study,  and  under  excellent  masters, 
and  it  gave  her  a  circle  of  cultivated  and  devoted  friends. 
Her  intellectual  life  at  once  expanded,  and  her  mind  grew 
deeper  and  richer.  The  next  month  after  going  to  Foleshill 
she  writes  of  being  ((  made  alive  to  what  is  certainly  a  fact, 
that  I  am  alone  in  the  world.”  In  another  letter,  a  month 
later,  she  gives  another  insight  into  her  own  character  :  “  I 
have  had  to  lament  that  mine  is  not  a  hard-working  mind 
—  it  requires  frequent  rest.”  In  the  same  letter  she  says  : 
“  Oh,  to  be  doing  some  little  towards  the  regeneration  of  this 
groaning,  travailing  creation  !  ”  These  three  sentences  ex¬ 
plain  much  in  the  character  of  Mary  Ann  Evans,  —  her  self¬ 
distrust,  her  need  for  sympathy  and  love,  and  her  desire  to 
give  the  tenderest  sympathies  of  her  life  to  the  good  of  others. 
These  self-searchings  bring  us  to  that  period  when  her  girl¬ 
hood  was  ended,  and  she  was  led  by  experiences  that  tried 
her  soul  to  what  was  strongest  and  most  noble  in  her 
womanhood. 

Among  the  friends  she  made  in  Coventry,  soon  after  going 
there  to  live,  were  Charles  Bray  and  his  wife,  Charles  Hennell, 
and  Miss  Sara  Hennell.  Mr.  Bray  was  a  ribbon-manufacturer, 
and  a  gentleman  of  literary  tastes,  whose  house,  Rosehill,  was 
a  centre  for  the  radical  literary  and  religious  thought  of  that 
region.  Here  were  welcomed  George  Combe,  James  Iroude, 
Emerson,  and  other  persons  of  a  like  manner  of  thinking.  A 
devoted  phrenologist,  Mr.  Bray  accepted  the  philosophic  doc¬ 
trine  of  necessity,  and  he  became  a  rationalistic  interpreter  of 
the  Gospel  narratives.  He  wrote  several  books,  which  were 
welcomed  by  a  circle  of  readers  of  like  tastes  with  his  own. 
The  brother  and  sister  of  Mrs.  Bray,  Charles  and  Sara  Hen¬ 
nell,  were  of  like  ways  of  thinking.  In  1838,  Charles  Hennell 
published  a  book  on  the  origin  of  Christianity,  in  which  he 
showed  that  it  grew  from  already  existing  conditions,  as 
a  natural  result  of  the  activity  of  the  human  mind.  Sara 


405 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Hennell  lias  applied,  tlie  doctrine  of  evolution  to  interpreting 
the  origin  of  religion,  in  an  extensive  work. 

Under  the  influence  of  these  persons  Mary  Ann  Evans  not 
only  lost  her  ultra-evangelicalism,  but  gave  up  her  faith  in  all 
supernaturalism.  She  had  been  zealously  religious  through- 
out  her  girlhood,  and  this  devoutness  was  increased  because 
she  was  enthusiastic  and  eager  to  do  good.  Ifer  mind  was 
naturally  inclined  to  search  for  the  reasons  of  her  beliefs, 
however,  and  she  was  zealous  in  finding  out  what  can  be  said 
on  the  subject  of  religion.  In  after  years,  when  asked  what 
influence  had  first  unsettled  her  mind  in  regard  to  her  orthodox 
beliefs,  she  replied,  “  Oh,  Walter  Scott’s.”  His  descriptions 
of  good  and  noble-  lives,  lived  without  reference  to  religious 
beliefs,  had  produced  this  effect  on  her  mind.  This  want  of 
conformity  of  religious  theory  with  religious  practice  seems  to 
have  much  affected  her,  and  to  have  been  forced  upon  her 
attention  in  several  ways.  She  noted  it  in  the  lives  of  the 
poor  and  untruthful,  but  very  religious  people,  with  whom  she 
was  brought  in  contact  in  her  benevolent  work ;  and  she 
noted  it  in  the  lives  of  the  good  men  of  whom  she  read.  One 
of  her  friends  “  well  remembers  her  speaking  of  Robert  Hall’s 
confession  that  he  had  been  made  unhappy  for  a  week  by  the 
reading  of  Miss  Edgeworth’s  Tales,  in  which  useful,  good,  and 
pleasant  lives  are  lived  with  no  reference  to  religious  hopes 
and  fears ;  and  her  drawing  attention  to  the  real  greatness  of 
mind  and  sincerity  of  faith  which  this  candid  confession  be¬ 
tokened.”  The  reading  of  Isaac  Taylor’s  “  Ancient  Christian¬ 
ity  ’  also  seems  to  have  had  its  influence  in  the  same  direction. 
A  mind  alert  for  truth,  and  eager  to  know  all  that  is  to  be 
known,  was  likely  not  to  be  content  with  accepting  her  faith 
(  n  the  statement  of  others.  Once  finding  that  the  arguments 
for  Christianity  were  not  so  complete  as  she  had  supposed,  or, 
at  least,  that  the  arguments  against  it  were  very  strong  and 
not  easily  answered,  she  would  be  inclined  to  give  more  weight 
to  the  objections  to  it  than  they  actually  deserve. 

She  had  the  impatience  and  inquisitiveness  of  a  young  and 
enthusiastic  person,  the  desire  to  learn,  and  the  egotism  of 
having  gone  farther  than  those  about  her.  In  a  conversation 


406 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


at  this  time  she  said  of  the  Jews  :  “  To  think  that  they  were 
deluded  into  expectations  of  a  temporal  deliverer,  and  then 
punished  because  they  could  n’t  understand  that  it  was  a 
spiritual  deliverer  that  was  intended  !  ”  When  the  person 
with  whom  she  was  in  conversation  said  that  we  have  no 
claim  on  God,  she  at  once  retorted:  “No  claim  on  God  !  We 
have  the  strongest  possible  claim  upon  him.”  Her  companion 
describes  her  as  she  appeared  during  this  controversy  with  a 
person  much  older  than  herself  :  “  There  was  not  only  on  her 
part  a  vehemence  of  tone,  startling  in  one  so  quiet,  but  a 
crudeness  in  her  objections,  an  absence  of  proposed  solution 
of  difficulties,  which  was  in  strange  contrast  to  the  satisfied 
calm  which  marked  her  subsequent  treatment  of  religious 
differences.” 

Even  before  moving  to  Coventry  her  reading  of  Isaac  Tay¬ 
lor  had  had  its  effect  in  loosening  her  hold  on  her  former 
beliefs,  and  her  mind  was  prepared  for  the  influence  of  the 
Brays  and  Hennells.  This  will  account  for  the  rapidity  with 
which  she  now  forsook  her  old  faith,  and  took  up  the  new  one 
of  rationalism  and  philosophic  necessity.  Another  reason  for 
this  change  was,  that  she  found  in  her  new  friends  persons 
who  were  in  intellectual  sympathy  with  her  in  regard  to  her 
love  of  literature  and  the  best  thinking.  This  affinity  of  in¬ 
tellectual  interests  prepared  her  mind  for  the  acceptance  of 
whatever  teachings  might  come  to  her  from  those  to  whom 
she  gave  her  confidence.  Under  this  new  stimulus,  and  this 
complete  satisfaction  of  her  desire  for  friendship  and  sympa¬ 
thy,  her  voice  and  manner  changed,  and  she  became  quite 
another  person.  As  in  the  case  of  all  new  converts,  she  zeal¬ 
ously  espoused  the  new  faith  that  had  been  given  her,  and 
she  believed  that  it  was  far  more  satisfactory  and  ennobling 
than  the  old  one.  She  wrote  with  enthusiasm  of  Charles 
Hennell’s  rationalistic  interpretation  of  the  origin  of  Chris¬ 
tianity.  “  The  book  is  full  of  wit,  to  me,”  she  said.  “  It 
gives  me  that  exquisite  kind  of  laughter  which  comes  from 
the  gratification  of  the  reasoning  faculties.”  “I  think,” 
she  farther  says,  “  the  ‘  Inquiry  ’  furnishes  the  utmost  that 
can  be  done  towards  obtaining  a  real  view  of  the  life  and 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT.  407 

character  of  Jesus,  by  rejecting  as  little  as  possible  from  the 
Gospels.” 

The  first  effect,  however,  of  her  change  of  belief  was  to 
leave  her  in  an  unsettled  and  unhappy  state  of  mind.  Every 
effort  was  made  by  her  old  friends  to  bring  her  back  to  her 
Christian  faith,  and,  among  others,  a  well-read  Baptist  clergy¬ 
man  was  asked  to  converse  with  her.  After  doing  so,  he  said : 
“  That  young  lady  must  have  had  the  devil  at  her  elbow  to 
suggest  her  doubts,  for  there  was  not  a  book  that  I  recom¬ 
mended  to  her  in  support  of  Christian  evidences  that  she  had 
not  read.”  A  theological  professor,  who  had  studied  at  Halle 
and  was  familiar  with  German  rationalism,  next  sought  to 
bring  her  back  to  the  old  faith ;  and  his  conclusion  was,  u  She 
has  gone  into  the  question.”  If  she  had  given  up  the  faith  of 
her  childhood,  she  was  by  no  means  satisfied  with  any  other, 
and  she  remained  in  a  hesitating  and  perplexed  state  of  mind 
for  some  time.  In  September,  1842,  her  friend  wrote  :  “  She 
now  takes  up  a  different  position.  Her  views  are  not  alto¬ 
gether  altered,  but  she  says  it  would  be  extreme  arrogance  in 
so  young  a  person  to  suppose  she  had  obtained  yet  any  just 
ideas  of  truth.”  Two  months  later  the  same  person  again 
wrote  an  account  of  an  interview :  “  She  seems  more  settled 
in  her  views  than  ever,  and  rests  her  objections  to  Christianity 
on  this  ground,  that  Calvinism  is  Christianity,  and  this  granted, 
that  it  is  religion  based  on  pure  selfishness.  She  occupied, 
however,  a  great  part  of  her  time  in  pleading  for  works  of  im¬ 
agination,  maintaining  that  they  perform  an  office  for  the  mind 
which  nothing  else  can.  On  the  mention  of  Shakespeare,  she 
praised  him  with  her  characteristic  ardor.”  In  the  March 
following,  her  views  had  undergone  still  other  changes  :  “  She 
said  she  considered  Jesus  Christ  as  the  embodiment  of  perfect 
love,  and  seemed  to  be  leaning  slightly  to  the  doctrines  of 
Carlyle  and  Emerson,  when  she  remarked  that  she  considered 
the  Bible  a  revelation  in  a  certain  sense,  as  she  considered 
herself  a  revelation  of  the  mind  of  Deity.” 

At  this  period  she  was  reading  Tholuch’s  reply  to  Strauss, 
the  “  Life  of  Dr.  Arnold,”  a  biography  of  Kichter  and  one  or 
more  of  his  books,  Margaret  Fuller’s  “  Woman  in  the  Nine* 


408  A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

teenth  Century,”  and  Emerson’s  “  Essays.”  The  %tresh  anci 
eager  life  she  found  in  these  books  satisfied  and  filled  her 
mind,  and  gave  her  the  idea  of  a  religion  larger  and  nobler 
than  that  to  which  she  had  been  accustomed.  The  frivolity 
and  worldliness  of  the  popular  religion  about  her  she  con¬ 
trasted  to  its  disadvantage  with  that  of  these  persons,  who 
gave  themselves  with  profound  and  consecrated  enthusiasm  to 
fche  service  of  man,  as  well  as  to  plain  living  and  high  think¬ 
ing.  Perhaps  the  first  effect  of  her  change  in  religious  faith 
was  to  make  her  a  Theist  after  the  manner  of  Froude,  Francis 
Newman,  and  Emerson.  When  she  met  the  latter,  in  1848, 
she  wrote,  “  I  have  met  Emerson —  the  first  man  I  have  ever 
seen.”  About  this  time  she  seems  to  have  turned  to  Panthe¬ 
ism  as  a  solution  of  the  problem  of  the  universe,  and  that  con¬ 
tinued  for  some  years  the  faith  which  satisfied  her  intellect. 
She  did  not  by  any  means  lose  her  faith  in  the  deepest  things 
of  religion,  or  her  passionate  desire  to  live  a  truly  good  and 
devout  life.  In  a  letter  to  one  of  her  new  friends,  written  in 
February,  1842,  she  shows  all  her  old  eagerness  for  being  on 
the  side  of  the  truth  and  doing  service  for  the  right.  “  For 
my  part,”  she  exclaims,  “I  wish  to  be  among  the  ranks  of 
that  glorious  crusade  that  is  seeking  to  set  Truth’s  Holy  Sep¬ 
ulchre  free  from  a  usurped  domination.  We  shall  then  see 
her  resurrection !  Meanwhile,  although  I  cannot  rank  among 
my  principles  of  action  a  fear  of  vengeance  eternal,  gratitude 
for  predestined  salvation,  or  a  revelation  of  future  glories  as  a 
reward,  I  fully  participate  in  the  belief  that  the  only  heaven 
here  or  hereafter  is  to  be  found  in  conformity  with  the  will  of 
the  Supreme ;  a  continual  aiming  at  the  attainment  of  the 
perfect  ideal,  the  true  logos  that  dwells  in  the  bosom  of  the 
Father.” 

Her  religious  doubts  did  not  lessen  her  desire  for  doing 
good,  and  her  mind  was  full  of  benevolent  purposes.  Her 
friends  and  servants,  and  the  poor  about  her,  all  went  to  her 
with  their  troubles,  and  she  gave  them  the  sympathy  they 
needed.  “When  any  object  of  charity  came  under  her  notice, 
and  power  to  help  was  within  her  reach,  she  was  very  prompt 
in  rendering  it.”  She  had  no  desire,  as  she  said,  “to  save 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


409 


one’s  soul  by  making  up  coarse  flannel  for  the  poor;  ”  but  slie 
had  the  humanitarian  spirit  in  a  most  active  and  zealous  form. 
She  helped  to  form  an  industrial  school  for  girls,  then  a  new 
thing  and  not  favorably  received,  and  she  was  very  active  in 
the  work  of  carrying  on  an  infant  school.  She  was  delighted 
in  the  work  of  the  Mechanics’  Institute,  and  when  she  heard 
the  first  temperance  lecture  given  in  Coventry,  she  said  of  the 
lecturer,  “  I  felt  that  he  had  got  hold  of  a  power  for  good  that 
was  of  incalculable  worth.”  Among  her  young  friends  she 
inculcated  the  best  lessons  wmch  life  can  afford.  On  one  of 
them  slie  enforced  the  importance  of  being  accurate  and  hav¬ 
ing  the  spirit  of  toleration.  “  My  dear  child,”  she  said,  “  the 
great  lesson  of  life  is  tolerance.” 

So  taken  up  was  she  with  her  new  faith,  and  so  anxious  to 
assert  its  worth,  during  the  first  year  of  its  acceptance,  that 
she  ceased  to  go  to  church,  and  lost  all  her  interest  in  the 
religion  she  had  abandoned.  Her  father  was  much  offended 
with  this  action,  proposed  to  give  up  Folesliill,  and  to  live 
with  his  married  daughter.  He  put  the  house  into  the  hands 
of  an  agent,  while  Mary  Ann  planned  to  go  to  Leamington  to 
teach.  After  some  weeks  of  uncertainty  and  distrust,  through 
the  intercession  of  her  brother  and  friends  she  was  induced 
to  resume  her  habit  of  attending  church,  and  her  father 
withdrew  the  house  from  the  hands  of  the  agent.  It  was  not 
long  before  she  saw  that  she  had  been  unwise  in  carrying  her 
zeal  too  far,  and  that  it  was  better  to  conform  to  the  manners 
of  the  world  in  those  things  which  are  dear  to  those  we  love. 
The  result  was,  that  she  went  on  happily  with  her  duties  and 
her  studies,  while  her  father’s  old  age  was  tenderly  cared  for 
and  kept  sweet.  “  The  first  impulse  of  a  young  and  ingenuous 
mind,”  she  says  in  one  of  the  letters  written  soon  after  this 
experience,  “is  to  withhold  the  slightest  sanction  from  all 
that  contains  even  a  mixture  of  supposed  error.  When  the 
soul  is  just  liberated  from  the  wretched  giant’s  bed  of  dogmas 
on  which  it  has  been  racked  and  stretched  ever  since  it  began 
to  think,  there  is  a  feeling  of  exultation  and  strong  hope.  We 
think  we  shall  run  well  when  we  have  the  full  use  of  our 
limbs  and  the  bracing  air  of  independence.  ,  .  r  But  a  year  or 


410 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


two  of  reflection,  and  the  experience  of  onr  own  miserable 
weakness,  which  will  ill  afford  to  part  even  with  the  crutch  of 
superstition,  must,  I  think,  affect  a  change.  Speculative  truth 
begins  to  appear  but  a  shadow  of  individual  minds.  Agree¬ 
ment  between  intellects  seems  unattainable,  and  we  turn  to 
the  truth  of  feeling  as  the  only  universal  bond  of  union.”  In 
this  way  she  reconciled  herself  with  her  father  and  with  church 
attendance  ;  and  the  conclusion  thus  expressed  and  acted  on 
became  a  leading  principle  in  her  life  throughout  all  the  com. 
ing  years.  In  the  bonds  of  sympathy  and  feeling  she  found 
the  reconciliation  of  the  discords  of  faith  and  life. 

During  the  next  two  years  her  friendship  with  the  Brays 
and  Hennells  strengthened  with  every  month.  In  May,  1843, 
they  made  a  trip  together  to  Stratford  and  Malvern,  and  in 
July  two  weeks  were  spent  at  Tenby.  During  this  sum¬ 
mer,  through  the  marriage  of  Charles  Hennell  with  Miss 
Brabrant,  who  had  undertaken  the  translation  of  Strauss’s 
“Life  of  Jesus,”  the  task  of  completing  this  work  came  into 
the  hands  of  Mary  Ann  Evans.  She  labored  on  it  diligently  for 
two  years,  little  liking  the  task,  and  often  feeling  keenly  her 
disagreement  with  the  positions  of  Strauss.  When  the  task 
was  completed  she  rejoiced  greatly,  for  it  had  been  irksome 
and  vexatious.  In  July,  1844,  while  the  translation  was  pro¬ 
gressing,  she  went  with  the  Brays  to  the  Cumberland  lakes, 
as  well  as  to  Manchester  and  Liverpool.  In  June  of  the  next 
year  she  spent  a  few  days  in  London,  and  in  October  she  took  a 
fortnight’s  trip  to  Scotland  with  the  Brays  and  Miss  Hennell. 

In  June,  1846,  a  few  weeks  were  spent  in  London,  the 
Strauss  volume  being  published  at  that  time.  In  July  she 
went  with  her  father  to  Dover  for  a  brief  period  of  rest.  She 
went  quietly  on  with  her  studies,  and  her  letters  of  this  period 
show  more  and  more  the  strong  intellectual  growth  of  her 
mind.  She  writes  frequently  of  the  books  she  is  reading,  and 
of  the  political  and  literary  topics  which  are  uppermost  in 
public  attention  at  the  time.  In  May,  1848,  she  went  with 
her  father  for  several  weeks  to  St.  Leonard’s ;  and  then  she 
became  aware  that  his  health  was  seriously  failing.  She  be¬ 
came  more  devoted  to  his  care,  giving  many  hours  of  each  day 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


41] 


to  reading  for  his  diversion.  Soon  after  her  return  from  the 
trip  just  mentioned  she  met  with  Emerson,  and  not  long  before 
she  wrote  a  review  of  Froude’s  u  Nemesis  of  Faith.”  Not  far 
from  this  time  she  began  to  translate  Spinoza’s  u  Tractatus 
Theologico-Politicus,”  a  work  which  she  completed  but  never 
published. 

An  event  now  happened  which  led  to  a  quite  different  life 
for  Mary  Ann  Evans,  and  to  the  beginning  of  her  literary 
labors.  This  was  the  death  of  her  father,  which  occurred 
May  31,  1849.  She  mourned  him  sincerely ;  and  the  ceasing 
of  the  need  to  care  for  him  made  a  great  change  in  her 
thoughts  and  feelings.  The  Brays  having  planned  a  Conti¬ 
nental  tour,  she  now  resolved  to  join  them.  Starting  June  11, 
they  passed  through  France  and  Italy,  arriving  in  Geneva 
July  3.  Here  she  remained  for  eight  months.  She  enjoyed  the 
scenery  and  the  life  about  her,  and  she  made  a  few  excellent 
friends.  At  first  she  went  to  the  'pension  known  as  the  Cam- 
pagne  Plongeon,  situated  in  the  suburbs,  but  in  a  locality  com¬ 
manding  some  of  the  finest  scenery.  The  company  here  did 
not  prove  attractive,  and  she  found  a  home  in  the  city  with 
M.  d’ Albert  Durade,  who  was  an  artist  of  some  repute,  and  in 
whose  family  she  had  a  very  pleasant  and  attractive  home. 
He  was  a  man  of  refinement,  musical,  sociable,  and  devoted  to 
his  art  ;  his  wif^  was  also  a  person  of  taste  and  good  feeling. 
Their  home  became  a  real  resting-place  t'o  Mary  Ann  Evans, 
and  she  won  two  good  friends  by  her  sojourn  there.  She  gave 
a  part  of  her  time  to  studies  in  music,  physics,  mathematics, 
and  other  subjects  congenial  to  her  mind;  but  rest  was  her 
main  object. 

In  the  spring  she  returned  to  England  by  the  way  of  France, 
accompanied  by  M.  d? Albert  Durade,  and  arrived  home  March 
23.  She  went  at  once  to  her  friends  in  Coventry,  and  then 
returned  to  the  old  home  at  Griff.  After  a  few  weeks  spent 
with  her  relatives  she  became  an  inmate  of  Rosehill,  and  re¬ 
mained  there  for  the  next  year  and  a  half.  She  found  the 
climate  very  trying  on  her  first  coming  home,  and  the  effects 
of  her  rest  seemed  not  to  be  great ;  but  she  slowly  recovered  a 
more  hopeful  tone  of  body  and  mind.  Her  first  piece  of  review 


112 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


writing  was  done  during  the  autumn,  being  an  article  for  tbs 

Westminster  Review”  on  Mackay’s  “  Progress  of  tbe  Intel- 
bet.”  John  Chapman,  the  editor  of  that  Review,”  was  at 
Rosehill  in  October  consulting  with  her  about  becoming  his 
assistant  in  conducting  it.  A  prospectus  for  a  new  series  was 
drawn  up  with  her  aid  during  a  visit  she  made  to  London  in 
January,  where  she  remained  until  March.  In  September 
she  returned  permanently  to  London,  and  became  a  boarder  in 
Mr.  Chapman’s  family,  at  No.  142,  Strand.  During  the  next 
live  years  she  was  the  assistant  editor  of  the  “  Westminster 
Review,”  contributing  about  a  dozen  articles  to  its  pages,  and 
writing  much  for  it  in  the  way  of  reviews  of  current  literature, 
as  well  as  devoting  much  time  to  purely  editorial  work.  The 
character  of  the  “  Review  ”  was  at  once  elevated  by  her  work 
on  it,  and  a  brilliant  list  of  contributors  was  secured,  largely 
by  her  efforts.  She  was  brought  into  contact  with  some  of  the 
ablest  men  and  women  of  the  day,  and  soon  numbered  Herbert 
Spencer,  Harriet  Martineau,  George  H.  Lewes,  W.  R.  Greg, 
*  Carlyle,  and  others,  among  her  friends. 

Her  health  was  not  perfectly  restored,  and  she  passed  many 
wretched  days,  suffering  greatly  from  headaches,  and  she  was 
ever  after  the  victim  of  bodily  debility.  She  went  often  to 
the  theatre  and  to  concerts,  took  an  occasional  outing  at  Rose- 
hill  or  elsewhere,  and  had  a  good  deal  of  connection  with  the 
literary  people  of  London.  The  drudgery  of  the  editorial 
position  was  not  congenial  to  her,  and  her  health  interfered 
with  the  prompt  discharge  of  its  duties ;  and  ye*  she  faith¬ 
fully  executed  all  literary  labors  which  she  undertook.  At 
one  time  she  writes :  “  I  am  bothered  to  death  with  article¬ 
reading  and  scrap-work  of  all  sorts ;  it  is  clear  my  poor  head 
will  never  produce  anything  under  these  circumstances ;  but 
I  am  'patient  /  ” 

In  October,  1853,  she  changed  her  home  to  Hyde  Park 
Square,  where  she  had  more  of  quiet,  and  a  greater  command 
of  her  time.  At  this  time  she  was  writing  a  work  on  “  The 
Idea  of  a  Future  Life,”  which  was  never  published ;  and  she 
began  a  translation  of  Feuerbach’s  “  Essence  of  Christianity.” 
In  her  new  lodgings  she  saw  more  of  her  friends  than  before, 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT.  413 

and  slie  writes  much  about  them  in  her  letters.  Almost  with¬ 
out  exception,  at  this  period,  as  well  as  throughout  her  life,  she 
wrote  with  praise  and  admiration  of  her  contemporaries  ’she 
did  not  admire  Miss  Bremer,  and  wrote  some  very  sharp  words 
about  her ;  but  a  closer  acquaintance  gave  her  a  greater  appre¬ 
ciation.  For  Harriet  Martineau,  on  the  other  hand,  she  had 
t  ie  warmest  regard,  aiid  a  very  high  conception  of  her  genius. 
In  October,  1852,  she  went  on  a  short  visit  to  George  Combe 
and  Miss  Martineau,  and  she  describes  the  latter  as  “charmin® 
111  her  own  h°me.”  Before  this  she  had  written,  “She  is  a 
trump  the  only  Englishwoman  who  possesses  thoroughly  the 
ait  of  writing.  The  last  statement  did  not  prevent  her  ad¬ 
miration  of  Mrs.  Gaskell,  whose  style  was  a  great  refreshment 
to  her,  from  its  finish  and  fulness.  Not  long  after  going  to 
London  she  met  “  a  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer,”  who  soon  became 

er  warm  friend,  who  had  frequent  conversations  with  her,  and 
whom  she  accompanied  to  musical  entertainments  and  the  thea¬ 
tre.  In  April  they  went  of  a  Saturday  to  the  opera,  and  she 
wrote  of  him  to  the  Brays  :  “  We  have  agreed  that  we  are  not 
in  love  with  each  other,  and  that  there  is  no  reason  why  we 
should  not  have  as  much  of  each  other’s  society  as  we  like. 

He  is  a  good,  delightful  creature,  and  I  always  feel  better  for 
being  with  him.” 

With  another  of  her  new  friends  there  did  come  to  be  more 
than  friendship.  In  September,  very  joon  after  going  to  Lon¬ 
don,  she  was  introduced  to  George  Henry  Lewes,  then  well 
known  as  an  author,  and  with  whose  reputation  she  was  prob- 
ably  well  acquainted ;  but  this  casual  meeting  did  not  give  her 
a  good  impression  of  him.  She  described  him  to  a  correspon¬ 
dent  as  “a  sort  of  miniature  Mirabeau  in  appearance.”  His 
name  occasionally  appears  in  her  letters,  showing  that  they 
were  progressing  towards  an  acquaintance.  In  November  he 
called,  and  spent  two  hours  talking  with  her  before  dinner ; 
and  when  he  was  gone  she  lamented  the  time  which  had  been 
wasted.  In  March  she  found  him,  “as  always,  genial  and 
amusing.  He  has  quite  won  my  liking,”  she  added,  “in  spite 
of  myself.”  Describing  the  April  gathering  of  the  “Westmin¬ 
ster”  writers,,  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Bray,  she  said  that  people 


414 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


were  very  good  to  her.  “  Mr.  Lewes,  especially,”  she  contin 
ued,  “  is  kind  and  attentive,  and  has  quite  won  my  regard, 
after  having  had  a  good  deal  of  my  vituperation.”  A  few  days 
later  she  wrote  to  the  same  friend :  “  Poor  Lewes  is  ill,  and  is 
ordered  not  to  put  pen  to  paper  for  a  month ;  so  I  have  some¬ 
thing  to  do  for  him  in  addition  to  my  own  work,  which  is 
rather  pressing.”  Early  in  J uly  she  writes  of  going  abroad ; 
and  on  the  20tli  she  joined  her  fortunes  with  those  of  Mr. 
Lewes,  and  set  out  for  Germany. 

It  will  be  seen  that  she  was  repelled  from  Lewes  at  first, 
and  that  his  good  nature,  his  geniality,  his  kindly  help  and 
sympathy,  won  on  her  until  aversion  was  turned  into  love.  He 
had  the  vivacity  of  a  Frenchman,  united  to  the  solidity  of  an 
Englishman ;  and  he  was  always  lively  and  happy  in  tempera¬ 
ment.  He  was  also  of  her  own  ways  of  thinking,  and  they  had 
much  in  common  intellectually.  He  had  been  married  and  had 
three  children ;  but  his  wife  had  deserted  him,  and  his  home 
had  been  wholly  broken  up.  According  to  the  English  laws  he 
could  not  secure  a  divorce  except  by  an  act  of  Parliament, 
which  was  not  to  be  thought  of  in  his  case.  Of  course,  under 
these  circumstances,  he  could  not  marry  Miss  Evans ;  and  she 
consented  to  become  his  wife  without  the  legal  process.  They 
could  have  been  legally  married  on  the  Continent  or  in  the 
United  States;  but  they  seem  to  have  preferred  to  make  a 
protest  against  an  exacting  and  unjust  law.  Their  union  must 
be  judged  by  the  results  which  it  produced  for  them  both. 
Her  letters  from  this  time  show  her  great  love  for  Mr.  Lewes, 
her  thorough  sympathy  with  him,  and  the  constant  satisfaction 
she  found  in  his  companionship.  The  union  was  one  of  hap¬ 
piness  and  perfect  sympathy  for  them  both  ;  and  they  were  as 
truly  married  as  if  a  legal  ceremony  had  been  performed. 

In  her  youth  Mary  Ann  Evans  entertained  opinions  which 
made  such  a  marriage  possible  with  her.  At  that  time  she 
thought  a  union  in  the  bonds  of  marriage  which  was  not  based 
on  a  sympathy  of  minds  and  hearts,  to  be  dreadful.  “  How 
terrible  it  must  be,”  she  said,  “  to  find  one’s  self  tied  to  a  being 
whose  limitations  you  could  see,  and  must  know  were  such  as 
to  prevent  your  ever  being  understood.”  A  friend  of  her  youth 


a  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


415 


nas  said  of  her  opinions  at  about  the  age  of  twenty  five  :  “  She 
thought  the  stringency  of  laws  rendering  the  marriage-tie  (at 
that  date)  irrevocable,  practically  worked  injuriously ;  the  ef¬ 
fect  being  ‘  that  many  wives  took  far  less  pains  to  please  their 
husbands  in  behavior  and  appearance,  because  they  knew  their 
own  position  to  be  invulnerable.’  And  at  a  later  time  she 
spoke  of  marriages  on  the  Continent,  where  separations  did 
not  necessarily  involve  discredit,  as  being  very  frequently  far 
happier.”  In  1848,  in  writing  to  Charles  Bray  of  “Jane 
Eyre,”  she  says  :  “  All  self-sacrifice  is  good,  but  one  would  like 
it  to  be  in  a  somewhat  nobler  cause  than  that  of  a  diabolical 
law  which  chains  a  man  soul  and  body  to  a  putrefying  carcass.” 
From  these  indications  it  would  seem  that  she  regarded  the  law 
forbidding  divorces  except  by  an  act  of  Parliament  as  injurious 
and  diabolical,  even  before  she  had  met  Lewes.  Siich  being 
her  opinion  of  the  law,  it  was  made  easier  for  her  to  disregard 
it  when  the  occasion  came. 

The  only  question  to  be  raised  about  their  act  is  that  con¬ 
cerning  the  advisability  of  an  individual  disregard  of  the  legal 
sanctions  which  are  so  necessary  to  the  moral  health  of  the 
community,  on  the  subject  of  the  relations  of  the  sexes.  Was 
their  act  likely  to  lead  persons  of  an  inadequate  moral  purpose 
to  follow  their  example  ?  This  is  not  at  all  probable,  for  the 
whole  tenor  of  their  lives  was  in  favor  of  a  perfect  devotion  to 
the  true  marriage  ties.  On  the  other  hand,  their  protest  was 
worth  something  as  against  laws  which  were  far  too  exacting 
to  be  just.  There  is  not  the  slightest  evidence  that  she  ever 
in  any  way  regretted  the  step  she  had  taken ;  and  she  did  ac¬ 
cept  cheerfully  the  obloquy  which  it  cast  upon  her  from  the 
fashionable  and  fastidious.  With  her  strong  moral  purpose, 
however,  it  is  not  easy  to  understand  why  she  did  not  seek 
marriage  on  the  Continent,  for  the  sake  of  escaping  whatever 
evil  effect  might  have  followed  her  conduct.  While  recogniz¬ 
ing  the  great  good  which  came  to  her  from  her  union  with  Mr. 
Lewes,  it  is  not  possible  to  overlook  the  failure  of  her  conduct 
in  regard  to  one  of  the  highest  of  social  relations.  In  the  union 
of  the  sexes  society  finds  its  highest  sanction  and  purpose ; 
and  the  keeping  that  relation  pure  is  absolutely  necessary  to 


416 


A  LIFE  OF  GEGKGE  ELIOT. 


its  health  and  development.  This  was  fully  seen  by  Miss 
Evans ;  and  she  seems  to  have  felt,  that,  on  the  whole,  she 
could  as  well  serve  society  by  a  protest  as  by  conformity. 
While  regretting  that  circumstances  seemed  to  put  her  in  the 
company  of  those  who  reject  all  binding  moral  and  social  ties, 
we  cannot  but  remember  with  the  utmost  of  gratitude  that 
she  did  find  much  needed  sympathy  and  encouragement  in  her 
union  with  Mr.  Lewes. 

Much  has  been  written  on  this  subject,  but  those  who  love 
the  woman  and  her  books  have  come  to  feeTthat  her  heart  was 
in  the  right,  if  her  conduct  was  conventionally  wrong.  Those 
willing  to  exercise  charity  will  keenly  appreciate  the  force  of 
her  appeal  to  Mrs.  Bray,  in  a  letter  written  September  4, 
1855,  more  than  a  year  after  her  union  with  Lewes.  “  Light 
and  easily  broken  ties,”  she  writes,  “are  what  I  neither  desire 
theoretically  nor  could  live  for  practically.  Women  who  are 
satisfied  with  such  ties  do  not  act  as  I  have  done.  That  any 
unworldly,  unsuperstitious  person  who  is  sufficiently  ac¬ 
quainted  with  the  realities  of  life  can  pronounce  my  relation 
to  Mr.  Lewes  immoral,  I  can  only  understand  by  remembering 
how  subtile  and  complex  are  the  influences  that  mould  opinion. 
But  I  do  remember  this :  and  I  indulge  in  no  arrogant  and  un¬ 
charitable  thoughts  about  those  who  condemn  us,  even  though 
we  might  have  expected  a  somewhat  different  verdict.  From 
the  majority  of  persons,  of  course,  we  never  looked  for  anything 
but  condemnation.  We  are  leading  no  life  of  self-indulgence, 
except,  indeed,  that,  being  happy  in  each  other,  we  find  every¬ 
thing  easy.  We  are  working  hard  to  provide  for  others  better 
than  we  provide  for  ourselves,  and  to  fulfil  every  responsibility 
that  lies  upon  us.”  In  1861  she  wrote  of  the  sacrifice  she  had 
made  of  friends  in  a  most  cheerful  mood,  and  she  stated  clearly 
her  claim  as  a  married  woman  :  “  It  was  never  a  trial  to  me  to 
have  been  cut  off  from  what  is  called  the  world,  and  I  think 
that  I  love  none  of  my  fellow-creatures  the  less  for  it ;  still,  I 
must  always  retain  a  peculiar  regard  for  those  who  showed  me 
any  kindness  in  word  or  deed  at  that  time,  when  there  was  the 
least  evidence  in  my  favor.  The  list  of  those  who  did  so  is  a 
short  one,  so  that  I  can  often  and  easily  recall  it.  For  the  last 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


41? 


six  years  I  have  ceased  to  be  'Miss  Evans’  for  any  one  who 
has  personal  relations  with  me  —  having  held  myself  under  all 
the  responsibilities  of  a  married  woman.  I  wish  this  to  be 
distinctly  understood ;  and  when  I  tell  you  that  we  have  a 
great  boy  of  eighteen  at  home,  who  calls  me  'mother/  as  well 
as  two  other  boys,  almost  as  tall,  who  write  to  me  under  the 
same  name,  you  will  understand  that  the  point  is  not  one  of 
mere  egotism  or  personal  dignity,  when  I  request  that  any  one 
who  has  a  regard  for  me  will  cease  to  speak  of  me  by  my 
maiden  name.” 

In  her  letters,  in  her  journal,  and  elsewhere,  George  Eliot 
constantly  expressed  the  great  satisfaction  she  had  in  her 
married  life,  and  the  perfect  love  which  was  given  her.  She 
wrote  to  Madame  Bodichon,  who  had  discovered  the  secret  of 
the  authorship  of  "  Adam  Bede,”  of  the  help  her  husband  had 
given  her  in  writing  it :  "  When  I  read  aloud  my  manuscript 
to  my  dear,  dear  husband,  he  laughed  and  cried  alternately, 
and  then  rushed  to  me  to  kiss  me.  He  is  the  prime  blessing 
that  has  made  all  the  rest  possible  to  me,  giving  me  a  response 
to  everything  that  I  have  written  —  a  response  that  I  could 
confide  in,  as  a  proof  that  I  have  not  mistaken  my  work.” 
Six  years  later  she  wrote  in  her  journal:  "In  each  other  we 
are  happier  than  ever.  I  am  more  grateful  to  my  dear  hus¬ 
band  for  his  perfect  love,  which  helps  me  in  all  good  and 
checks  me  in  all  evil  — more  conscious  that  in  him  I  have  the 
greatest  of  blessings.”  Eight  years  farther  on  in  their  married 
life  she  wrote  to  Mrs.  William  Smith  of  the  death  of  that  lady’s 
husband,  and  of  Mr.  Lewis’s  reading  her  account  of  their  mar- 
ried  life  :  "  He  sobbed  with  something  which  is  a  sort  of  grief 
better  worth  having  than  any  trivial  gladness,  as  he  read  the 
printed  record  of  your  love.  He,  too,  is  capable  of  that  su¬ 
preme,  self-merging  love.”  The  manuscripts  of  her  books  were 
presented  to  Mr.  Lewes,  and  each  one  of  them  inscribed  with 
the  words,  "  To  my  dear  Husband.”  The  "  Spanish  Gypsy  ” 
bore  this  expression  of  her  affection  :  "  To  my  dear  —  every  day 
dearer — Husband.”  On  the  manuscript  of  "  Middlemarch  ” 
was  this  inscription  :  "  To  my  dear  Husband,  George  Henry 
Lewes,  in  this  nineteenth  year  of  our  blessed  union.” 

37 

> 


VOL.  IV. 


418 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Not  only  did  she  find  her  own  marriage  all  that  she  could 
desire,  but  she  had  a  very  lofty  idea  of  what  marriage  should 
oe.  She  wrote  to  a  friend  of  that  ideal  of  marriage  which  she 
desired  young  people  “to  have  in  their  minds  as  a  goal.”  To 
a  young  friend  about  to  be  married  she  wrote  :  “  The  possi¬ 
bility  of  a  constantly  growing  blessedness  in  marriage  is  to  me 
the  very  basis  of  good  in  our  mortal  life ;  and  the  believing 
hope  that  you  and  she  will  experience  that  blessedness  seems 
to  enrich  me  for  the  coming  years.”  In  all  her  books,  too,  her 
ideal  of  marriage  is  of  the  noblest  and  purest. 

To  this  expression  of  George  Eliot's  affection  for  her  hus¬ 
band  ought  to  be  added  his  testimony  of  the  debt  he  owed  to 
her.  At  the  beginning  of  1859  he  recorded  in  his  journal  the 
results  of  an  interview  with  Herbert  Spencer  :  “  Walked  along 
the  Thames  towards  Kew  to  meet  Herbert  Spencer,  who  was 
uo  spend  the  day  with  us,  and  we  chatted  with  him  on  matters 
personal  and  philosophical.  I  owe  him  a  debt  of  gratitude* 
My  acquaintance  with  him  was  the  brightest  ray  in  a  very 
dreary,  wasted  period  of  my  life.  I  had  given  up  all  ambition 
whatever,  lived  from  hand  to  mouth,  and  thought  the  evil  of 
each  day  sufficient.  The  stimulus  of  his  intellect,  especially 
during  our  long  walks,  roused  my  energy  once  more  and  re¬ 
vived  my  dormant  love  of  science.  His  intense  theorizing 
tendency  was  contagious,  and  it  was  only  the  stimulus  of  a 
theory  which  could  then  have  induced  me  to  work.  I  owe 
Spencer  another  and  a  deeper  debt.  It  was  through  him  that 

I  learned  to  know  Marian  * —  to  know  her  was  to  love  her _ 

and  since  then  my  life  has  been  a  new  birth.  To  her  I  owe 
all  my  prosperity  and  all  my  happiness.  God  bless  her !  ” 

After  deciding  to  accept  the  marriage  relations  without  the 
aid  of  a  clergyman,  Lewes  and  his  wife  proceeded  at  once  to 
Weimar,  where  they  spent  three  months.  He  had  already 
been  engaged  for  some  time  on  his  “  Life  of  Goethe,”  which 
he  now  completed  in  the  midst  of  the  scenes  which  that  great 
poet  had  consecrated  by  his  presence.  She  worked  with  him, 
took  long  walks  in  his  company,  and  studied  every  subject  in 
v  iiich  he  was  occupied.  Her  descriptions  of  Weimar  are  most 
interesting,  because  so  full  of  the  finest  appreciation  of  the 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


419 


men  who  have  given  the  little  German  city  all  its  reputation. 
Early  in  November  they  went  to  Berlin  for  five  months,  which 
were  spent  in  the  same  affectionate  companionship  and  in  the 
same  earnest  pursuit  of  common  studies.  Here  they  met 
Varnhagen,  Reymond,  Gruppe,  Stahr,  and  other  men  of  genius, 
who  soon  became  their  friends.  Though  they  did  not  at  all 
admire  the  newness  and  pretension  of  Berlin,  their  days  were 
spent  delightfully  in  study  and  conversation.  During  these 
German  days  she  nearly  completed  her  translation  of  Spinoza’s 
“  Ethics,”  and  she  wrote  for  the  “  Westminster  Review”  an 
article  on  Victor  Cousin’s  “  Madame  de  Sable,”  and  another  on 
Vehse’s  “Court  of  Austria.”  In  company  with  Lewes  she 
read  Shakespeare,  Goethe,  Lessing,  Thackeray,  Heine,  and 
Schiller. 

In  March  they  returned  to  England,  and  in  May  they  set¬ 
tled  in  lodgings  at  East  Sheen ;  but  in  September  they  took 
rooms  at  8  Park  Street,  Richmond,  where  they  remained  for 
about  three  years.  She  at  once  resumed  her  labors  on  the 
“  Westminster,”  at  least  the  writing  the  Belles  Lettres  section 
for  each  number.  The  drudgery  of  reading  articles  and  cor¬ 
recting  proofs  did  not  come  to  her  again  ;  but  she  wrote  much 
more  for  the  “Review”  itself  than  she  had  done  before. 
During  the  next  two  years  she  produced  papers  on  the  poet 
Young,  the  theological  teachings  of  Dr.  Cumming,  a  famous 
preacher  of  the  day,  the  works  of  Rheil,  Heine,  and  German 
wit,  the  silly  books  of  lady  novelists,  and  an  account  of  her 
visit  to  Weimar.  At  the  same  time  she  wrote  almost  weekly 
for  the  “  Leader,”  of  which  Lewes  was  the  literary  editor. 

In  after  years  she  was  inclined  to  take  little  interest  in  the 
review  writing  which  she  did  at  this  period,  and  she  said  to 
one  of  her  friends  that  she  wrote  criticisms  because  she  did 
not  know  enough  about  life  to  write  anything  else.  This 
is  the  judgment  of  the  successful  novelist,  who  had  come 
to  feel  impatient  of  that  work  of  earlier  years  which  had 
not  satisfied  her  literary  aspirations ;  and  it  is  not  to  be 
accepted  as  a  final  verdict  on  that  work.  In  fact,  her  review 
writing  was  of  an  original  and  striking  kind,  independent, 
sympathetic,  and  suggestive.  The  opinions  she  expressed  of 


420 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


her  contemporaries  are  those,  for  the  most  part,  which,  hav* 
stood  the  test  of  time.  Her  article  on  Cumming  and  evangeli¬ 
cal  religion  for  the  first  time  gave  Lewes  a  conviction  of  her 
true  genius  in  writing.  She  did  not  follow  the  opinions  of 
the  critics  who  had  preceded  her,  but  she  thought  out  her 
own  conclusions  and  expressed  them  in  a  forcible  manner. 
Her  style  was  a  little  heavy,  and  her  manner  lacking  in 
sprightliness ;  but  her  judgments  were  sound,  and  her  literary 
canons  safe.  In  her  notice  of  Tennyson’s  “  Maud  ”  she  wrote  : 
“  As  long  as  the  English  language  is  spoken,  the  word-music 
of  Tennyson  must  charm  the  ear ;  and  when  the  English 
has  become  a  dead  language,  his  wonderful  concentration  of 
thought  into  luminous  speech,  the  exquisite  pictures  in  which 
he  has  blended  all  the  hues  of  reflection,  feeling,  and  fancy, 
will  cause  him  to  be  read  as  we  read  Homer,  Pindar,  and 
Horace.”  Her  interpretation  of  Browning  was  accurate  and 
sympathetic  at  a  time  when  his  poetry  found  little  just  appre¬ 
ciation  :  “  Here,  at  least,  is  a  man  who  has  something  of  his 
own  to  tell  us,  and  who  can  tell  it  impressively,  if  not  with 
faultless  art.  There  is  nothing  sickly  or  dreamy  in  him :  he 
has  a  clear  eye,  a  vigorous  grasp,  and  courage  to  utter  what 
he  sees  and  handles.  His  robust  energy  is  informed  by  a  sub¬ 
tile,  penetrating  spirit,  and  this  blending  of  opposite  qualities 
gives  his  mind  a  rough  piquancy  that  reminds  one  of  a  russet 
apple.  His  keen  glance  pierces  into  all  the  secrets  of  human 
character,  but,  being  as  thoroughly  alive  to  the  outward  as  to 
the  inward,  he  reveals  those  secrets,  not  by  a  process  of  dis¬ 
section,  but  by  dramatic  painting.”  Such  writing  as  this  is 
not  so  common  that  it  ought  to  be  forgotten,  and  it  is  a  pity 
all  her  best  criticisms  have  not  been  preserved  for  the  instruc¬ 
tion  of  those  who  enjoy  this  kind  of  writing. 

Her  reading  went  on  with  unabated  zeal,  and  all  of  it  of  a 
kind  to  equip  her  mind  with  learning  and  breadth  of  literary 
culture.  A  good  part  of  it  was  done  with  Lewes,  and  they 
alternately  read  aloud  from  whatever  books  they  were  inter¬ 
ested  in  at  the  time.  In  a  remarkable  degree  they  were  in¬ 
terested  in  the  same  books  and  subjects,  and  held  the  same 
opinions  about  them.  This  gave  a  satisfaction  of  the  highest 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


421 


kind  to  their  studies,  whether  scientific  or  literary.  They 
differed  in  their  opinions  sufficiently  to  give  a  zest  to  theii 
intercourse ;  but  on  the  main  questions  of  life,  philosophy  and 
religion,  they  were  essentially  in  harmony.  In  a  letter  to  Miss 
Sara  Hennell  she  says,  of  some  opinion  of  hers  which  had 
been  credited  to  Lewes  :  “If  you  referred  to  something  in  Mr. 
Lewes’s  letter,  let  me  say,  once  for  all,  that  you  must  not  im¬ 
pute  my  opinions  to  him  nor  vice  versa.  The  intense  happi¬ 
ness  of  our  union  is  derived  in  a  high  degree  from  the  perfect 
freedom  with  which  we  each  follow  and  declare  our  own 
impressions.  In  this  respect  I  know  no  man  so  great  as  he  — 
that  difference  of  opinion  rouses  no  egoistic  irritation  in  him, 
and  that  he  is  ready  to  admit  that  another  argument  is  the 
stronger  the  moment  his  intellect  recognizes  it.”  With  this 
spirit  of  perfect  toleration  as  a  guide  they  carried  on  their 
studies,  and  read  the  great  books  of  the  world  together.  It  is 
surprising  to  see  from  her  letters  and  her  journal  how  much 
she  read,  and  how  completely  she  kept  on  the  highest  levels 
of  literature  in  the  books  she  selected.  The  masters  of  the 
Greek,  Latin,  Italian,  French,  German,  Spanish,  and  English 
literatures  were  all  read  by  her,  and  always  in  the  original. 
Her  acquaintance  with  the  best  thought  of  the  world  must 
have  been  very  extensive ;  and  this  applies  to  philosophy, 
science,  and  art,  as  well  as  to  literature. 

A  mere  hint  of  the  books  she  read,  and  the  extent  of  her 
reading,  may  give  some  idea  of  the  breadth  of  her  information. 
In  August,  1868,  for  instance,  she  makes  note  in  her  journal 
of  having  read  the  first  book  of  Lucretius,  the  sixth  book  of 
the  Iliad,  “  Samson  Agonistes,”  Warton’s  “  History  of  Eng¬ 
lish  Poetry,”  the  second  volume  of  Grote,  Marcus  Aurelius, 
Dante’s  “Vita  Nuova,”  a  chapter  in  Comte’s  “Politique  Posi¬ 
tive,”  Guest  on  “  English  Rhythms,”  and  Maurice’s  “  Lectures 
on  Casuistry.”  This  is  only  a  fair  sample  of  what  she  was 
doing  constantly,  whether  at  home  or  seeking  for  health  in  the 
country  or  on  the  Continent.  In  the  January  following  she 
read  the  twenty-fourth  book  of  the  Iliad,  the  first  book  of  the 
“Faerie  Queene,”  Clough’s  poems,  and  Mommsen’s  “Rome.” 
Aloud  to  Lewes  she  read  some  Italian,  Ben  Jonson’s  “Alche* 


422 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


mist”  and  “Volpone,”  Bright’s  speeches,  four  cantos  of  “Don 
Juan,”  and  something  from  the  “Spectator.”  In  July  she 
finished  reading  Lucretius,  read  Victor  Hugo’s  “  L’homme  qui 
rit,”  Frau  von  Hillern’s  “  Ein  Arzt  der  Seele,”  Nisard’s  “  His¬ 
tory  of  French  Literature,”  Jewitt’s  “  Universal  History,” 
Sismondi’s  “Litterature  du  Midi,”  Drayton’s  “Nymphidia” 
and  “  Foly-Olbion,”  three  chapters  of  Grote,  several  of  the 
idyls  of  Theocritus,  Key  baud’s  “  Les  Reformateurs  Modernes,” 
and  Plato’s  “  Republic  ”  in  various  parts.  It  is  not  the  amount 
of  this  reading,  so  much  as  the  character  of  it,  which  is  sug¬ 
gestive.  She  seldom  read  current  novels,  not  finding  them  to 
her  taste,  and  she  did  not  discover  in  them  anything  that  was 
satisfactory  to  her  love  of  imagination  and  original  power. 
She  read  much  in  science,  keeping  herself  well  posted  in  re¬ 
gard  to  the  discoveries  and  speculations  of  the  day.  History 
and  biography  she  thoroughly  enjoyed,  and  read  extensively. 
It  was,  however,  in  the  great  field  of  literature  proper  that 
she  found  her  keenest  satisfaction.  She  studied  the  great 
literary  productions  with  enthusiasm  and  a  warm  appreciation  ; 
and  she  ranged  far  and  wide  among  the  books  of  imagination 
and  genius.  She  loved  all  that  was  great,  and  did  not  confine 
her  appreciation  to  the  masters  of  any  special  school,  or  to  the 
cultivators  of  any  particular  style. 

The  summer  of  1856  was  spent  on  the  west  coast  of  England, 
where  Lewes  was  full  of  employment  in  studying  marine  life. 
His  wife  was  his  constant  companion,  and  entered  into  the 
full  spirit  of  his  investigations.  He  gave  a  full  account  of  his 
labors,  with  affectionate  mention  of  his  wife,  in  his  “  Seaside 
Studies.”  But  the  summer  was  mainly  memorable  as  being 
the  time  wrhen  she  determined  to  try  her  hand  at  the  writing 
of  a  novel.  She  mentioned  to  a  correspondent  her  desire  to 
get  rid  of  the  article-writing  then  occupying  her,  that  she 
might  have  time  to  begin  her  story.  Her  work  on  the  current 
“  Westminster  ”  having  been  completed  September  19,  she 
began  to  write  the  “Sad  Fortunes  of  Amos  Barton”  on  the 
22d,  and  it  was  completed  November  5.  Her  own  account  of 
how  she  came  to  write  a  novel  is  so  interesting  that  it  cannot 
be  omitted :  “  September,  1S56,  made  a  new  era  in  my  life,  for 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


423 


It  was  then  I  began  to  write  fiction.  It  had  always  been  a 
vague  dream  of  mine  that  some  time  or  other  I  might  write  a 
novel ;  and  my  shadowy  conception  of  what  the  novel  was  to 
be,  varied,  of  course,  from  one  epoch  of  my  life  to  another. 
But  I  never  went  further  towards  the  actual  writing  of  the 
novel  than  an  introductory  chapter  describing  a  Staffordshire 
village  and  the  life  of  the  neighboring  farm-houses  ;  and  as 
the  years  passed  on  I  lost  any  hope  that  I  should  ever  be  able 
to  write  a  novel,  just  as  I  desponded  about  everything  else  in 
my  future  life.  I  always  thought  I  was  deficient  in  dramatic 
power,  both  of  construction  and  dialogue,  but  I  felt  I  should 
be  at  my  ease  in  the  descriptive  parts  of  a  novel.  My  '  intro¬ 
ductory  chapter  ’  was  pure  description,  though  there  were  good 
materials  in  it  for  dramatic  presentation.  It  happened  to  be 
among  the  papers  I  had  with  me  in  Germany,  and  one  evening 
at  Berlin  something  led  me  to  read  it  to  George.  He  was 
struck  with  it  as  a  bit  of  concrete  description,  and  it  suggested 
to  him  the  possibility  of  my  being  able  to  write  a  novel,  though 
he  distrusted  —  indeed,  disbelieved  in  —  my  possession  of  any 
dramatic  power.  Still,  he  began  to  think  that  I  might  as  well 
try  some  time  what  I  could  do  in  fiction,  and  by-and-by,  when 
we  came  back  to  England,  and  I  had  greater  success  than  he 
expected  in  other  kinds  of  writing,  his  impression  that  it  was 
worth  while  to  see  how  far  my  mental  power  would  go  towards 
the  production  of  a  novel  was  strengthened.  He  began  to  say 
very  positively,  ‘  You  must  try  and  write  a  story/  and  when 
we  were  at  Tenby  he  urged  me  to  begin  at  once.  I  deferred 
it,  however,  after  my  usual  fashion  with  work  that  does  not 
present  itself  as  an  absolute  duty.  But  one  morning,  as  I 
was  thinking  what  should  be  the  subject  of  my  first  story, 
my  thoughts  merged  themselves  into  a  dreamy  doze,  and  I 
imagined  myself  writing  a  story,  of  which  the  title  was  ‘  The 
Sad  Fortunes  of  the  Reverend  Amos  Barton/  I  was  soon 
wide  awake  again  and  told  George.  He  said,  'Oh,  what  a 
capital  title  !  ’  and  from  that  time  I  had  settled  in  my  mind 
that  this  should  be  my  first  story.  George  used  to  say,  '  It 
may  be  a  failure  —  it  may  be  that  you  are  unable  to  write 
fiction.  Or,  perhaps  it  may  be  just  good  enough  to  warrant 


m 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


your  trying  again.’  Again,  4  You  may  have  a  chef-d’oeuvre  at 
once  there ’s  no  telling.’  But  his  prevalent  impression  was, 
that  though  I  could  hardly  write  a  poor  novel,  my  effort  would 
want  the  highest  quality  of  fiction  —  dramatic  presentation. 
He  used  to  say,  ‘  You  have  wit,  description,  and  philosophy  — 
those  go  a  good  way  towards  the  production  of  a  novel.  It  is 
woith  while  for  you  to  try  the  experiment.’  We  determined 
that  if  my  story  turned  out  good  enough  we  would  send  it  to 
Blackwood  ;  but  George  thought  the  more  probable  result  was 
that  I  should  have  to  lay  it  aside  and  try  again.  But  when 
we  returned  to  Richmond  I  had  to  write  my  article  011  ‘  Silly 
Novels,’  and  my  review  of  Contemporary  Literature  for  the 
1  Westminster,’  so  that  I  did  not  begin  my  story  till  Septem¬ 
ber  22.  After  I  had  begun  it,  as  we  were  walking  in  the 
park,  I  mentioned  to  George  that  I  had  thought  of  the  plan  of 
writing  a  series  of  stories,  containing  sketches  drawn  from  my 
own  observation  of  the  clergy,  and  calling  them  ‘  Scenes  from 
Clerical  Life,’  opening  with  ‘  Amos  Barton.’  He  at  once  ac¬ 
cepted  the  notion  as  a  good  one — fresh  and  striking;  and 
about  a  week  afterwards,  when  I  read  him  the  first  part  of 
*  Amos,’  he  had  no  longer  any  doubt  about  my  ability  to  carry 
out  the  plan.  The  scene  at  Cross  Farm,  he  said,  satisfied  him 
that  I  had  the  very  element  he  had  been  doubtful  about  —  it 
was  clear  I  could  write  good  dialogue.  There  still  remained 
the  question  whether  I  could  command  any  pathos ;  and  that 
was  to  be  decided  by  the  mode  in  which  I  treated  Milly’s 
death.  One  night  George  went  to  town  on  purpose  to  leave 
me  a  quiet  evening  for  writing  it.  I  wrote  the  chapter  from 
the  news  brought  by  the  shepherd  to  Mrs.  Hackit,  to  the 
moment  when  Amos  is  dragged  from  the  bedside,  and  I  read 
it  to  George  when  he  came  home.  We  both  cried  over  it,  and 
then  he  came  up  to  me  and  kissed  me,  saying,  ‘  I  think  your 
pathos  is  better  than  your  fun.’  ” 

On  the  completion  of  the  story  Lewes  sent  it  to  Blackwood, 
who  soon  wrote  accepting  it,  but  in  a  way  which  was  dis¬ 
couraging  to  the  author.  She  was  always  very  susceptible  to 
the  manner  in  which  her  work  was  received  by  other  persons, 
easily  discouraged,  and  needing  to  be  sustained  by  the  sympa- 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


425 


thy  and  approbation  of  others.  The  tone  of  criticism  in  which 
Blackwood  wrote  dismayed  her;  but  as  soon  as  he  found  how 
she  felt,  he  wrote  with  more  of  approval,  and  promised  to 
accept  the  whole  series  of  stories,  as  proposed.  In  sending 
the  story  Lewes  spoke  of  it  with  the  highest  praise,  and  as 
surpassing  everything  of  the  kind  since  the  “  Vicar  of  Wake¬ 
field  ”  in  its  humor,  pathos,  vivid  presentation,  and  nice  obser¬ 
vation.  When  Blackwood  had  become  acquainted  with  it  he 
accepted  this  opinion  as  a  just  one,  and  said  that  the  author 
had  struck  a  new  vein  in  fiction,  and  one  full  of  promise.  “It 
is  a  long  time,”  he  wrote,  “  since  I  have  read  anything  so 
fresh,  so  humorous,  and  so  touching.”  He  sent  fifty  guineas 
for  “Amos,”  and  this  mark  of  her  success  gave  the  author  a 
new  impulse  for  going  on  with  her  writing.  On  Christmas 
day,  1856,  she  began  to  write  “Mr.  Gilfil’s  Love-Story,’’  and 
she  found  it  easier  to  proceed  with  it  because  Albert  Smith  had 
sent  her  word  of  how  thoroughly  he  enjoyed  the  first  story. 
Another  reader  found  it  to  resemble  Goldsmith’s  “  Vicar ;  ” 
and  Blackwood  thoroughly  approved  of  the  first  part  of  the 
Gilfil  story,  when  it  reached  him.  “  Amos  Barton  ”  had  been 
sent  anonymously,  Lewes  simply  describing  the  author  as  a 
friend  of  his,  and  refusing  even  to  say  that  he  was  or  was 
not  a  clergyman.  The  shyness  of  the  author,  and  her  fear 
of  failure,  probably  both  contributed  towards  the  purpose  of 
adopting  a  fictitious  name.  Lewes  wrote  of  her  “shy,  shrink¬ 
ing,  ambitious  nature,”  when  telling  Blackwood  of  her  discour¬ 
agement  on  the  receipt  of  his  first  letter.  When  Blackwood 
was  anxious  about  her  name,  she  signed  her  letter  “  George 
Eliot,”  fixing  on  the  first  name  because  it  was  Lewes’s  Chris¬ 
tian  name,  and  on  the  Eliot  because  it  “  was  a  good,  mouth- 
filling,  easily  pronounced  word.”  In  one  of  her  letters  she 
gives  this  reason  for  using  a  fictitious  name  :  “  Whatever  may 
be  the  success  of  my  stories,  I  shall  be  resolute  in  preserving 
my  incognito,  having  observed  that  a  nom  de  plume  secures 
all  the  advantages  without  the  disagreeables  of  reputation. 
Perhaps,  therefore,  it  will  be  well  to  give  you  my  prospective 
name,  as  a  tub  to  throw  to  the  whale  in  case  of  curious  in¬ 
quiries  ;  and  accordingly  I  subscribe  myself,  best  and  most 


a  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

sympathizing  of  editors,  yours  very  truly,  George  Eliot.” 
In  another  letter  she  farther  explained  her  reasons  for  the  use 
of  this  name  :  “  for  several  reasons  I  am  very  anxious  to  re¬ 
tain  my  incognito  for  some  time  to  come,  and,  to  an  author  not 
already  famous,  anonymity  is  the  highest  prestige.  Besides, 
ii  George  Eliot  turns  out  a  bull-dog  and  an  ineffective  writei 
a  mere  flash  in  the  pan  —  I,  for  one,  am  determined  to  cut 
him  on  the  first  intimation  of  that  disagreeable  fact.” 

On  the  16th  of  March,  George  Lewes  and  George  Eliot  took 
their  way  to  Plymouth,  Penzance,  and  the  Scilly  Isles  for  s» 
four  months’  period  of  rest  and  scientific  study.  Here  they 
rambled,  read,  studied  marine  life,  and  wrote,  in  a  very  pleas¬ 
ant  and  happy  manner.  Jersey  was  also  visited,  and  here  were 
spent  several  weeks  of  a  sweet,  pc  aceful  life,  rambling  with 
Nature  and  writing  of  Mr.  Gilfil  and  his  sorrows.  That  story 
was  completed,  and  on  the  18th  of  April  "Janet's  Repentance  ” 
was  begun.  When  the  first  parts  of  the  latter  were  sent  to 
Blackwood  he  was  inclined  to  dislike  them,  and  there  was  a 
new  discouragement  for  the  author ;  but  as  it  went  on  he  came 
to  like  it  more  and  more,  until  he  had  much  admiration  for  it 
when  completed. 

On  the  24th  of  July  the  Jersey  sojourn  came  to  an  end- 
and  there  were  visits  of  friends  at  their  home  in  Richmond. 
There  also  came  new  indications  of  the  success  of  the  clerical 
stories,  including  praise  from  Thackeray,  which  was  most  of 
all  desired,  for  George  Eliot  saw  in  him  the  greatest  liv¬ 
ing  no\  el- writer.  October  9,  "  Janet’s  Repentance”  was  com¬ 
pleted,  and  on  the  22d  "Adam  Bede”  was  begun.  Arrange¬ 
ments  were  soon  made  for  the  publication  of  the  “Clerical 
Scenes  ”  in  two  volumes,  which  had  a  good  sale,  and  one  hun¬ 
dred  and  eighty  pounds  were  paid  for  them  in  this  form. 

Life  now  became  brighter  and  happier  to  George  Eliot.  She 
had  a  happy  home,  and  she  had  found  a  work  to  do  which 
satisfied  the  desire  of  her  mind  for  activity  of  a  kind  likely  to 
help  others.  In  some  measure  the  early  tone  of  discourage¬ 
ment  and  despondency  now  passed  from  her  mind,  and  she 
took  a  more  hopeful  view  of  her  own  life.  In  December  she 
wrote  to  Sara  Ilennell  that  their  affairs  were  very  prosperous 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


427 


Jnst  then,  “  making  sunshine  in  a  shady,  or,  rather,  in  a  foggy 
place.”  “  I  get  more  hungry  for  knowledge  every  day,”  she 
adds,  “and  less  able  to  satisfy  my  hunger.”  She  writes  in 
her  journal  of  being  “alone  this  evening  with  very  thankful, 
solemn  thoughts  —  feeling  the  great  and  unhoped-for  blessings 
that  have  been  given  me  in  life.  This  last  year,  especially, 
has  been  marked  by  inward  progress  and  outward  advantages. 
...  I  have  had  much  sympathy  from  my  readers  in  Blackwood, 
and  feel  a  deep  satisfaction  in  having  done  a  bit  of  faithful 
work  that  will  perhaps  remain,  like  a  primrose  root  in  the 
hedgerow,  and  gladden  and  chasten  human  hearts  in  years 
to  come.”  On  the  last  night  of  the  year  1857  she  confided 
to  her  journal  the  new  happiness  and  strength  which  had 
come  to  her,  and  she  wrote  in  a  tone  of  saddened  exultation  — 
sad,  and  yet  resolute  with  a  hopeful  purpose  :  “  My  life  has 
deepened  unspeakably  during  the  last  year:  I  feel  a  greater 
capacity  for  moral  and  intellectual  enjoyment,  a  more  acute 
sense  of  my  deficiencies  in  the  past,  a  more  solemn  desire  to 
be  faithful  to  coming  duties,  than  I  remember  at  any  former 
period  of  my  life.  And  my  happiness  has  deepened  too  ;  the 
blessedness  of  a  perfect  love  and  union  grows  daily.  Few 
women,  I  fear,  have  had  such  reason  as  I  have  to  think  the 
long,  sad  years  of  youth  were  worth  living  for  the  sake  of 
middle  age.  Our  prospects  are  very  bright,  too.”  Earlier  in 
the  same  year  she  had  written  to  one  of  her  friends  in  the 
same  tone  of  happiness  and  strength  because  of  the  new  life 
she  had  gained,  and  of  regret  for  the  saddened  life  she  had 
lived  in  the  past.  “  I  am  very  happy  —  happy  in  the  highest 
blessing  life  can  give  us,  the  perfect  love  and  sympathy  of  a 
nature  that  stimulates  my  own  to  healthful  activity.  I  feel, 
too,  that  all  the  terrible  pain  I  have  gone  through  in  past 
years,  partly  from  the  defects  of  my  own  nature,  partly  from 
outward  things,  has  probably  been  a  preparation  for  some 
special  work  that  I  may  do  before  I  die.  That  is  a  blessed 
hope,  to  be  rejoiced  in  with  trembling.  But  even  if  that  hope 
should  be  unfulfilled,  I  am  contented  to  have  lived  and  suffered 
for  the  sake  of  what  has  already  been.” 

The  constitutional  despondency  from  which  George  Eliot 


428 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


always  suffered  had  its  marked  effect  on  her  life  and  on  her 
writings.  It  was  difficult  for  her  to  believe  in  herself,  and 
yet  she  had  great  ambitions  and  an  egotism  of  her  own.  It 
often  occurs  that  the  most  sensitive  and  shrinking  persons  are 
the  most  eagerly  confident  of  their  own  powers,  and  yet  they 
need  encouragement  to  bring  them  out  into  full  activity  of 
thought  and  expression.  She  was  morbidly  conscious  of  her 
own  faults,  and  often  more  inclined  to  dwell  on  them  than  to 
believe  in  her  own  powers  of  doing  good  in  the  world.  She 
constantly  stood  in  need  of  encouragement,  and  of  being  stim¬ 
ulated  to  activity  by  the  good  opinions  of  others.  She  de¬ 
manded  the  sense  of  success  in  order  to  work  readily  and 
easily,  and  her  morbid  fear  of  herself  led  her  away  from  the 
faith  she  needed  in  her  own  powers.  So  early  as  when  she 
was  twenty  years  of  age,  she  wrote  to  the  Brays  this  very 
truthful  statement  about  the  kind  of  help  most  likely  to  do 
her  good:  “I  want  encouraging  rather  than  warning  and 
checking.  I  believe  I  am  so  constituted  that  I  shall  never  be 
cured  of  my  faults  except  by  God’s  discipline.  If  human  be¬ 
ings  would  but  believe  it,  they  do  me  the  most  good  by  saying 
to  me  the  kindest  things  truth  will  permit  5  and  really  I  can¬ 
not  hope  those  will  be  superlatively  kind.”  To  Charles  Bray 
she  wrote  of  this  need  at  the  time  when  she  was  seriously 
beginning  the  work  of  novel-writing :  “  I  never  think  what  I 
write  is  good  for  anything  till  other  people  tell  me  so,  and 
even  then  it  always  seems  to  me  as  if  I  should  never  write 
anything  else  worth  reading.  Ah,  how  much  good  we  may  do 
each  other  by  a  few  friendly  words,  and  the  opportunities  for 
them  are  so  much  more  frequent  than  for  friendly  deeds  !  We 
want  people  to  feel  with  us  more  than  to  act  for  us.”  Writ¬ 
ing  to  Mrs.  Bray  just  when  she  was  beginning  “Adam  Bede,” 
she  makes  an  agonized  confession  of  her  need  for  sympathy 
and  love,  and  of  that  terrible  fear  which  hung  over  her,  that 
people  could  not  love  her  as  she  had  need  of  it :  “I  can’t  help 
losing  belief  that  people  love  me  —  the  unbelief  is  in  my  na¬ 
ture,  and  no  sort  of  fork  will  drive  it  finally  out.  I  can’t  help 
wondering  that  you  can  think  of  me  in  the  past  with  much 
pleasure.  It  all  seems  so  painful  to  me  —  made  up  of  blunders 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


429 


and  selfishness  —  and  it  only  comes  back  upon  me  as  a  thing  to 
be  forgiven.  This  is  honest,  painful  truth,  and  not  sentimen¬ 
tality.”  A  little  later  on  she  wrote  again  to  the  same  friend : 
“I  have  been  blasphemous  enough  sometimes  to  think  that  I 
had  never  been  good  and  attractive  enough  to  win  any  little 
share  of  the  honest,  disinterested  friendship  there  is  in  the 
world.”  Even  after  fame  had  come  to  her,  with  the  publica¬ 
tion  of  “  Adam  Bede,”  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  look  at  her 
own  life  with  a  cheerful  hope  and  a  confident  reliance  on  her 
own  powers ;  and  her  doubts  are  once  more  poured  into  the 
sympathetic  ears  of  Mrs.  Bray :  “  The  weight  of  my  future 
life- — the  self-questioning  whether  my  nature  will  be  able  to 
meet  the  heavy  demands  upon  it,  both  of  personal  duty  and 
intellectual  production,  presses  upon  me  almost  continually 
in  a  way  that  prevents  me  even  from  tasting  the  quiet  joy 
I  might  have  in  the  work  done .  Buoyancy  and  exultation,  I 
fancy,  are  out  of  the  question  when  one  has  lived  so  long  as 
I  have.  But  I  am  the  better  for  every  word  of  encouragement, 
and  am  helped  over  many  days  by  such  a  note  as  yours.  I 
often  think  of  my  dreams  when  I  was  four  or  five  and  twenty. 
I  thought  then  how  happy  fame  would  make  me !  I  feel  no 
regret  that  the  fame,  as  such,  brings  no  pleasure ;  but  it  is  a 
grief  to  me  that  I  do  not  constantly  feel  strong  in  thankful¬ 
ness  that  my  past  life  has  vindicated  its  uses  and  given  me 
reason  for  gladness  that  such  an  unpromising  woman-child 
was  born  into  the  world.”  These  quotations  might  be  in¬ 
creased  by  many  more  of  the  same  kind,  but  they  are  enough 
to  show  the  tendency  of  her  mind. 

It  is  sad  that  a  mind  so  great  should  have  been  so  constantly 
tormented  by  these  doubts.  She  had  serious  faults  in  her 
youth,  without  doubt,  but  she  was  too  conscious  of  them,  and 
too  willing  to  accuse  herself  of  their  existence.  Her  writing 
would  have  been  more  cheerful  and  greater  in  its  uplifting  in¬ 
fluence  if  these  morbid  fears  had  not  been  so  perpetually  with 
her.  The  element  of  sadness  in  all  her  books  grew  out  of  this 
source;  and  few  of  her  sympathetic  readers  can  fail  to  feel 
the  presence  and  the  depression  of  it.  This  distrust  of  her 
own  powers  was  a  result,  in  some  measure,  of  an  egotism  that 


430 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


was  ever  acutely  sensitive.  A  morbid  sensitiveness,  joined  to 
a  restless  egotism,  was  the  source  of  her  doubts.  Not  the  less 
painful,  however,  was  the  struggle  which  came  to  her  from 
this  cause,  and  which  lasted  to  the  very  day  of  her  death.  The 
creative  instinct  was  strong  within  her,  and  the  confident  am¬ 
bition  which  it  gives  she  felt  from  her  earliest  youth ;  but  the 
sensitive  spirit  shrunk  within  itself,  and  could  not  be  made 
active  except  by  the  encouragement  of  others.  Nothing  could 
have  been  more  fortunate  than  that  she  had  in  hei  husband  a 
friend  capable  of  seeing  and  appreciating  genius  wherever  it 
is  found,  and  of  that  boundless  cheerfulness  and  courage  which 
acted  as  an  antidote  to  her  own  fears.  To  him  she  rightly 
attributed  whatever  of  success  she  met  with  as  an  author,  for 
it  may  be  doubted  if  she  would  ever  have  become  a  creative 
artist  at  all  without  his  sympathy  and  appreciation.  That  she 
found  at  the  moment  when  it  was  most  needed,  and  she  lived 
on  it  and  in  it  through  the  remainder  of  her  career  as  an 
author. 

There  is  great  need  of  being  cautious  about  drawing  infer¬ 
ences  concerning  this  morbidness  of  her  mind;  but  the  mark 
of  it  is  on  her  writings  as  surely  as  the  stamp  of  Byron’s  mor¬ 
bidness  is  on  his  poetry.  Her  theories  of  life  were  colored  by 
t,  and  her  religion  took  form  from  it  in  no  small  measure. 
The  element  of  evil  in  human  life  grew  too  prominent  in  her 
thought  under  the  influence  of  this  depression  ;  and  it  is  pos¬ 
sible  that  it  made  her  too  little  willing  to  embrace  the  optim¬ 
ism  which  is  an  accompaniment  of  Theism.  She  was  too  keen 
and  strong  a  thinker  to  suffer  her  opinions  to  be  shaped  by 
her  feelings  alone ;  but  a  mind  so  sensitive  could  not  well  or 
easily  throw  off  the  effects  of  a  tendency  to  look  on  the  dark 
side  of  life.  She  had  a  morbid  dislike  of  Calvinism,  and  yet 
theie  was  something  of  the  stern  element  of  Calvinism  in  her 
thinking  on  religious  subjects.  The  joyous  sympathy  with 
the  universe  and  the  life  it  expresses,  which  is  to  be  found  in 
some  of  the  greatest  natures,  she  did  not  have.  She  had  sym¬ 
pathy,  but  she  did  not  have  the  exultation  in  life  and  its  tran¬ 
scendent  powers  which  is  to  be  found  in  the  thought  and  life 
of  the  greatest  minds. 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


431 


At  the  beginning  of  1858  came  letters  full  of  encouragement 
from  Dickens,  Froude,  Faraday,  and  Mrs.  Carlyle,  to  whom 
copies  of  the  “  Clerical  Scenes  ”  had  been  sent.  The  quick 
discernment  of  Dickens  made  him  believe  the  author  was  a 
woman,  although  shielded  under  a  masculine  name.  If  left  to 
himself,  he  wrote  that  he  would  have  addressed  the  author  as 
a  woman.  “  I  have  observed  what  seemed  to  me  such  womanly 
^touches  in  those  moving  fictions,  that  the  assurance  on  the 
title-page  is  insufficient  to  satisfy  me  even  now.  If  they 
originated  with  no  woman,  I  believe  that  no  man  ever  before 
had  the  art  of  making  himself  mentally  so  like  a  woman  since 
the  world  began.”  Others  felt  confident  they  could  not  have 
been  written  by  a  woman,  misled  probably  by  their  intimate 
sy mpathy  with  the  clerical  profession,  and  their  indication  of 
abundant  knowledge.  This  letter  from  Dickens  gave  her  the 
greatest  pleasure,  and  she  wrote  of  it  to  Blackwood :  “  There 
can  hardly  be  any  climax  of  approbation  for  me  after  this ; 
and  I  am  so  deeply  moved  by  the  finely  felt  and  finely  ex¬ 
pressed  sympathy  of  the  letter,  that  the  iron  mask  of  my  in¬ 
cognito  seems  quite  painful  in  forbidding  me  to  tell  Dickens 
how  thoroughly  his  generous  impulse  has  been  appreciated.” 

On  the  7th  of  April,  1858,  Lewes  and  his  wife  set  out  for 
Munich,  where  they  spent  the  next  three  months.  A  change 
of  scene,  the  desire  for  quiet,  and  the  greater  cheapness  of 
living  caused  them  to  take  this  step.  The  study  of  pictures, 
the  hearing  of  music,  the  reading  of  the  best  books,  the  steady 
writing  of  chapter  after  chapter  on  the  works  in  hand,  made 
up  their  busy  employment.  New  friends  were  also  made,  and 
among  them  Boaenstedy  Liebir,  Heyse,  and  Geibel.  Liebig 
was  particularly  kind,  and  he  took  a  benevolent  liking  to 
George  Eliot.  “  He  lives  in  very  good  German  style,”  she 
wrote  to  Sara  Hennell ;  “  has  a  handsome  suite  of  apartments, 
and  makes  a  greater  figure  than  most  of  the  professors.  His 
manners  are  charming  —  easy,  graceful,  benignant,  and  all  the 
more  conspicuous  because  he  is  so  quiet  and  low-spoken 
among  the  loud  talkers  here.”  Bodenstedt  was  found  to  be  a 
charming  man,  and  she  said  that  “  Heyse  is  like  a  painter’s 
poet,  ideally  beautiful;  rather  brilliant  in  his  talk,  and  alto* 


432 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


gether  pleasing.”  She  also  saw  something  of  Strauss,  for  he 
made  a  week’s  visit  to  Munich  while  she  was  there.  When 
she  had  a  quarter  of  an  hour’s  chat  with  him  alone  she  was 
very  agreeably  impressed  by  him.  “He  speaks  with  very 
choice  words,  like  a  man  strictly  truthful  in  the  use  of  lan¬ 
guage,”  she  wrote. 

On  the  7th  of  July  they  left  Munich,  and  proceeded  to 
Dresden,  by  the  way  of  Salzburg,  Ischl,  Vienna,  and  Prague, 
where  they  remained  until  the  end  of  August.  They  were  at 
home  by  the  first  of  September,  and  in  February  they  went  to 
live  at  Holly  Lodge,  Wandsworth.  A  few  days  after  their 
return  from  Germany  the  second  volume  of  “Adam  Bede” 
was  sent  off  to  Blackwood.  This  story  had  been  growing 
while  George  Eliot  was  on  the  Continent,  and  it  was  read  to 
Le  wes  as  it  was  written.  The  third  volume  followed  in  No¬ 
vember,  and  Blackwood  offered  her  £800  for  the  copyright, 
which  were  accepted.  It  was  at  first  proposed  to  publish  it  in 
“Blackwood’s  Magazine,”  but  the  editor  had  some  doubts  con¬ 
cerning  the  course  of  the  story,  and  that  project  was  finally 
given  up.  At  Munich,  when  the  second  volume  was  being 
written,  Lewes  expressed  the  conviction  that  Adam  Bede  was 
taking  too  passive  a  part  in  the  drama  of  life  about  him,  and 
that  he  should  be  brought  into  active  collision  with  Arthur. 
“This  doubt  haunted  me,”  says  the  author  in  her  recollec¬ 
tions,  “and  out  of  it  grew  the  scene  in  the  wood  between 
Arthur  and  Adam ;  the  fight  came  to  me  as  a  necessity  one 
night  at  the  Munich  opera,  when  I  was  listening  to  ‘  William 
Tell.’  ”  The  second  volume  was  written  uninterruptedly  and 
with  great  enjoyment  in  the  long  quiet  mornings  in  Dresden ; 
and  the  third  volume  was  written  very  rapidly  in  her  own 
home,  and  was  left  without  the  slightest  alteration  of  the  first 
draft.  She  greatly  enjoyed  the  writing  of  “Adam  Bede,”  and 
for  the  first  time  while  it  was  in  progress  she  became  thor¬ 
oughly  conscious  of  her  power.  It  gave  her  less  travail  of 
soul  than  any  other  of  her  books,  and  she  felt  that  she  had 
done  something  in  writing  it  that  was  worthy  of  her  effort. 

Her  account  of  the  origin  of  “Adam  Bede  ”  is  very  interest* 
ing,  and  it  is  suggestive  in  regard  to  her  methods  of  dealing 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT, 


483 


with,  the  facts  of  real  life.  “  The  germ  of  ‘  Adam  Bede 9  was 
an  anecdote  told  me  by  my  Methodist  Aunt  Samuel  (the  wife 
of  my  father’s  younger  brother)  —  an  anecdote  from  her  own 
experience.  We  were  sitting  together  one  afternoon  during 
her  visit  to  me  at  Griff,  probably  in  1839  or  1840,  when  it 
occurred  to  her  to  tell  me  how  she  had  visited  a  condemned 
criminal  —  a  very  ignorant  girl,  who  had  murdered  her  child 
and  refused  to  confess ;  how  she  had  stayed  with  her  praying 
through  the  night,  and  how  the  poor  creature  at  last  broke 
out  into  tears  and  confessed  her  crime.  My  aunt  afterwards 
went  with  her  in  the  cart  to  the  place  of  execution  ;  and  she 
described  to  me  the  great  respect  with  which  this  ministry  of 
hers  was  regarded  by  the  official  people  about  the  jail.  The 
story,  told  by  my  aunt  with  great  feeling,  affected  me  deeply, 
and  I  never  lost  the  impression  of  that  afternoon  and  our  talk 
together ;  but  I  believe  I  never  mentioned  it,  through  all  the 
intervening  years,  till  something  prompted  me  to  tell  it  to 
George  in  December,  1856,  when  I  had  begun  to  write  the 
1  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life.’  He  remarked  that  the  scene  in  the 
prison  would  make  a  fine  element  in  a  story ;  and  I  afterwards 
began  to  think  of  blending  this  and  some  other  recollections 
of  my  aunt  in  one  story,  with  some  points  in  my  father’s  early 
life  and  character.  The  problem  of  construction  that  remained 
was  to  make  the  unhappy  girl  one  of  the  chief  dramatis  per¬ 
sona j  and  connect  her  with  the  hero.  At  first  I  thought  of 
making  the  story  one  of  the  series  of  ‘  Scenes ;  ’  but  afterwards, 
when  several  motives  had  induced  me  to  close  these  with 
‘  Janet’s  Repentance,’  I  determined  on  making  what  we  al 
ways  called  in  our  conversation  ‘My  Aunt’s  Story’  the  sub¬ 
ject  of  a  long  novel,  which  I  according^  began  to  write  on  the 
22d  October,  1857.  The  character  of  Dinah  grew  out  of  my 
recollections  of  my  aunt,  but  Dinah  is  not  at  all  like  my  aunt, 
who  was  a  very  small,  black-eyed  woman,  and  (as  I  was  told, 
for  I  never  heard  her  preach)  very  vehement  in  her  style  of 
preaching.  She  had  left  off  preaching  when  I  knew  her,  being 
probably  sixty  years  old,  and  in  delicate  health ;  and  she  had 
become,  as  my  father  told  me,  much  more  gentle  and  subdued 
than  she  had  been  in  the  days  of  her  active  ministry  and 

VOL.  iv. 


434 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


bodily  strength,  when  she  could  not  rest  without  exhorting 
and  remonstrating  in  season  and  out  of  season.  I  was  very 
fond  of  her,  and  enjoyed  the  few  weeks  of  her  stay  with  me 
greatly.  She  was  loving  and  kind  to  me,  and  I  could  talk  to 
her  about  my  inward  life,  which  was  closely  shut  up  from 
those  usually  round  me.  I  saw  her  only  twice  again,  for 
much  shorter  periods  —  once  at  her  own  home  at  Wirksworth, 
in  Derbyshire,  and  once  at  my  father’s  last  residence,  Foles- 
hill.  Lhe  character  of  Adam  and  one  or  two  incidents  con¬ 
nected  with  him  were  suggested  by  my  father’s  early  life;  but 
Adam  is  not  my  father  any  more  than  Dinah  is  my  aunt. 
Indeed,  there  is  not  a  single  portrait  in  ‘  Adam  Bede  ’ ;  only  the 
suggestions  of  experience  wrought  up  into  new  combinations. 
When  I  began  to  write  it,  the  only  elements  I  had  determined 
on,  besides  the  character  of  Dinah,  were  the  character  of  Adam, 
his  relation  to  Arthur  Donnithorne,  and  their  mutual  rela¬ 
tions  to  Hetty — that  is,  to  the  girl  who  commits  child-murder 
the  scene  in  the  prison  being,  of  course,  the  climax  towards 
which  I  worked.  Everything  else  grew  out  of  the  characters 
and  their  mutual  relations.  Dinah’s  ultimate  relation  to  Adam 
was  suggested  by  George,  when  I  had  read  to  him  the  first 
part  of  the  first  volume :  he  was  so  delighted  with  the  pre¬ 
sentation  of  Dinah,  and  so  convinced  that  the  reader’s  interest 
would  centre  in  her,  that  he  wanted  her  to  be  the  principal 
figure  at  the  last.  I  accepted  the  idea  at  once,  and  from 

the  end  of  the  third  chapter  worked  with  it  constantly  in 
view.” 

The  publication  of  “Adam  Bede”  at  once  placed  George 
Eliot  in  the  front  rank  of  living  novelists ;  and  no  less  than 
eighteen  thousand  copies  were  sold  during  the  first  year  after 
ioS  issue.  Very  shortly  there  began  to  come  to  her  indications 
of  the  favor  with  which  it  was  accepted  by  the  public ;  and 
she  cherished  many  of  these  as  helps  against  her  constitu¬ 
tional  discouragement.  She  reckoned  it  among  her  best  tri¬ 
umphs  that  Mrs.  Carlyle  found  herself  “  in  charity  with  the 
whole  human  race  after  reading  it.  Charles  Reade  said  it 
was  “the  finest  thing  since  Shakespeare;”  and  it  was  quoted 
by  Charles  Buxton  in  Parliament.  Bulwer  found  it  worthy  of 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


435 


great  admiration ;  77  and  Professor  Aytoun  had  to  send  the 
last  two  volumes  out  of  the  house  because  he  neglected  his 
work  in  the  absorbing  interest  with  which  lie  read  it.  Dickens 
wrote  her  “  the  noblest,  most  touching  letter  77  about  “  Adam  ; 75 
and  Herbert  Spencer  sent  an  enthusiastic  letter,  in  which  he 
said,  as  she  reports  him,  that  “  he  feels  the  better  for  reading 
it  —  really  words  to  be  treasured  up.” 

One  of  her  schoolmates  discovered  the  real  author,  and  one 
of  her  intimate  friends  made  the  same  discovery  from  reading 
extracts  in  a  review  article.  To  this  friend  she  wrote  with 
an  eager  expression  of  delight  in  the  heartfelt  recognition  of 
her  work,  and  the  reception  of  it  as  hers.  “You  are  the  first 
friend,77  she  wrote,  “  who  has  given  any  symptom  of  knowing 
me ;  the  first  heart  that  has  recognized  me  in  a  book  which 
has  come  from  my  heart  of  hearts.  ...  I  have  no  time  for 
exultation  ;  on  the  contrary,  these  last  months  have  been  sad' 
der  than  usual  to  me,  and  I  have  thought  more  of  the  future 
and  the  much  work  that  remains  to  be  done  in  life  than  of 
anything  that  has  been  achieved.  But  I  think  your  letter 
to-day  gave  me  more  joy,  more  heart-felt  glow,  than  all  the 
letters  or  reviews  or  other  testimonies  of  success  that  have 
come  to  me.77  To  the  Brays  and  Hennells  she  made  known 
the  authorship,  when  they  were  making  a  brief  visit  to  Lon¬ 
don;  “and  they  seemed  overwhelmed  with  surprise.77  On 
their  return  home  she  wrote  them  a  letter  full  of  feeling  at 
the  kindness  and  sympathy  they  had  shown  her,  but  express¬ 
ing  her  great  sensitiveness  in  regard  to  having  her  own  work 
talked  about  and  praised  to  herself.  “If  people  were  to  buzz 
round  me  with  their  remarks,  or  compliments,  I  should  lose 
the  repose  of  mind  and  truthfulness  of  production  without 
which  no  good,  healthy  books  can  be  written.  Talking  about 
my  books,  I  find,  has  much  the  same  malign  effect  on  me  as 
talking  of  my  feelings  or  my  religion.77  In  the  same  letter 
she  protested  that  “  there  is  not  a  single  portrait  in  the  book, 
nor  will  there  be  in  any  future  book  of  mine*77  She  acknowl¬ 
edged  that  there  were  portraits  in  “Clerical  Scenes;77  “but 
that  was  my  first  bit  of  art,  and  my  hand  was  not  well  in.77 

The  great  success  of  “Adam  Bede77  made  her  more  than 


436 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


ever  anxious  about  her  writing ;  and  though  Mrs.  Gaskell  had 
written  her  that  she  had  never  read  anything  so  complete  and 
beautiful  in  fiction  in  her  life  before,  she  could  not  but  feel 
that  a  greater  responsibility  had  been  placed  on  her  to  do  the 
very  best  that  was  possible.  With  success  came  not  only  the 
demand  for  true  work,  but  all  the  annoyances  which  are  inci¬ 
dent  to  popularity.  One  of  these,  in  her  case,  took  the  form 
of  a  claim  of  the  authorship  of  her  books  on  the  part  of  an 
obscure  attorney  living  in  Nuneaton.  The  local  touches  in 
her  books  were  quickly  discovered,  and  attracted  wide  atten¬ 
tion  in  Warwickshire.  The  unknown  author  was  sought  for, 
and  some  zealous  person  found  him  in  a  Mr.  Liggins.  During 
several  months  her  letters  are  full  of  the  claim  made  on  be¬ 
half  of  this  man,  and  it  annoyed  her  excessively.  It  required 
much  effort  to  convince  some  of  those  who  pressed  his  claim. 
With  much  chagrin  she  learned  that  her  intimate  friends  in 
Coventry  were  on  the  side  of  Liggins,  and  that  no  one  in  that 
region  thought  of  her  in  connection  with  the  authorship. 
“Mr.  Liggins  I  remember/’  she  wrote,  “as  a  vision  of  my 
childhood ;  a  tall,  black-coated,  genteel  young  clergyman,  in¬ 
embryo;”  but  it  was  many  months  before  she  heard  the  last 
of  him.  Then  appeared  an  “Adam  Bede,  junior,”  purporting 
to  be  a  sequel  to  “  Adam  Bede,”  and  had  a  good  sale.  To  one 
so  sensitive,  such  small  experiences  as  these  proved  a  source 
of  much  trouble,  and  rendered  the  ways  of  authorship  any¬ 
thing  but  pleasant  to  travel. 

However  unpleasant  it  was  to  have  her  work  attributed  to 
another  person,  she  was  soon  at  work  on  a  second  novel.  In 
J uly,  1859,  she  made  a  brief  trip  to  Lucerne,  where  she  spent 
three  days  with  Mrs.  Congreve,  a  neighbor  and  an  intimate 
friend,  while  Lewes  made  a  flying  visit  to  his  sons.  In  Sep 
tember  there  was  a  short  trip  to  Penmaenmawr,  where  three 
weeks  were  spent.  In  the  mean  time  the  new  novel  was  going 
on.  but  with  much  more  of  travail  than  in  the  case  of  “  Adam 
Bede.’  In  her  journal  of  September  18  she  wrote  :  “  In  much 
anxiety  about  my  new  novel ;  ”  but  it  had  been  commenced  sev¬ 
eral  months  before.  At  first  she  thought  of  calling  it  “  The 
Tullivers,”  or  oerhaps  “  St.  Ogg’s  on  the  Floss.”  When  the 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


437 


first  volume  was  completed,  in  October,  she  wrote  of  it  as 
“  Sister  Maggie.”  Blackwood  accepted  it  in  December,  but  he 
was  not  satisfied  with  the  title.  Lewes  preferred  to  namp  it 
“The  House  of  Tulliver;  or,  Life  on  the  Floss;”  and  she 
proposed  “The  Tullivers ;  or,  Life  on  the  Floss.”  At  last 
Blackwood  suggested  “The  Mill  on  the  Floss,”  and  she 
accepted  it  with  a  slight  protest.  March  21,  1860,  the  new 
novel  was  completed,  with  a  feeling  of  sadness,  usual  to  her 
on  such  occasions.  “Your  letter  yesterday  morning,”  she 
wrote  to  Blackwood,  “  helped  to  inspire  me  for  the  last  eleven 
pages,  if  they  have  any  inspiration  in  them.  They  were 
written  in  a  furor ,  but  I  dare  say  there  is  not  a  word  different 
from  what  it  would  have  been  if  I  had  written  them  at  the 
slowest  pace.”  She  seems  to  have  regarded  “  The  Mill  on  the 
Floss  ”  as  in  many  respects  superior  to  “  Adam  Bede ;  ”  and 
she  was  inclined  to  reject  whatever  was  said  against  its 
morality  and  its  art.  She  would  not  be  converted  to  a  rejec¬ 
tion  of  Maggie’s  position  towards  Stephen.  “  If  ±  am  wrong 
there,”  she  wrote  to  Blackwood,  —  “  if  I  did  not  really  know 
what  my  heroine  would  feel  and  do  under  the  circumstances 
in  which  I  deliberately  placed  her,  —  I  ought  not  to  have 
written  this  book  at  all,  but  quite  a  different  book,  if  any.  If 
the  ethics  of  art  do  not  admit  the  truthful  presentation  of 
a  character  especially  noble,  but  liable  to  great  error  —  error 
that  is  anguish  to  its  own  nobleness — then,  it  seems  to  me, 
the  ethics  of  art  are  too  narrow,  and  must  be  widened  to 
correspond  with  a  widening  psychology.”  She  admitted  that 
the  final  tragedy  was  not  adequately  prepared  for,  owing  to 
her  interest  in  the  subject  having  beguiled  her  into  too  great 
expansion  in  the  first  two  volumes.  The  book  had  an  even 
greater  success  than  “  Adam  Bede,”  however ;  and  there  was 
far  less  in  connection  with  its  publication  to  annoy  the  author. 
The  name  of  George  Eliot  had  become  a  recognized  one  in 
literature,  and  her  position  was  now  secure.  She  had  found 
the  true  work  of  her  life,  and  was  as  far  satisfied  with  it  as 
she  could  be  with  any  work.  The  success  which  she  had 
attained  gave  her  strength  and  courage,  and,  what  was  more 
needed,  the  assurance  that  the  public  demanded  the  work 


438 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


she  could  produce.  She  accepted  gladly  the  opportunity 
which  was  given  her  through  her  novels  to  touch  and  mould 
the  feelings  and  aspirations  of  her  fellows.  Their  opinions 
she  did  not  give  much  heed  to,  for  she  believed  that  these 
were  not  the  shaping  influences  in  life.  With  a  high  and 
earnest  purpose  she  went  on  with  her  novel-writing,  having 
faith  in  art  and  its  mission,  but  also  being  possessed  with  the 
conviction  that  an  emotional  purpose  of  a  still  higher  impor¬ 
tance  was  to  be  effected  through  it. 

The  last  week  in  March,  1860,  George  Eliot  started  for 
Italy  in  company  with  her  husband.  They  went  by  the  way 
of  Paris  and  Mont  Cenis.  She  had  looked  forward  to  this 
journey  for  years,  rather  with  the  hope  of  the  new  elements 
it  would  bring  to  her  culture  than  with  the  hope  of  immediate 
pleasure.  The  disappointment  of  not  finding  the  highest 
delight  in  every  famous  object  she  keenly  felt  in  her  travel¬ 
ling  ;  but  she  saw  that  its  main  good  must  be  in  the  enlarge¬ 
ment  of  the  general  life  of  the  traveller.  A  few  hours  of  rest 
were  had  in  Turin,  and  as  the  travellers  departed  they  had  a 
sight  of  Cavour,  who  was  “  a  pleasant  man  to  look  upon,  with 
a  smile  half  kind,  half  caustic.”  Genoa  was  reached  on  a 
bright,  warm  spring  morning,  and  there  was  a  faithful,  though 
fragmentary,  remembrance  of  it  as  it  was  seen  eleven  years 
before.  Leghorn,  Pisa,  and  Civita  Vecchia  were  visited  and 
examined  on  the  way  to  Rome.  They  arrived  from  the  way 
of  the  Campagna,  and  there  was  nothing  imposing  to  be  seen, 
the  first  impression  being  one  of  disappointment.  The  art 
and  antiquities  of  the  city  were  carefully  studied,  and  all  its 
life  was  keenly  enjoyed.  There  were  other  objects,  also,  to 
attract  the  attention  of  an  Englishwoman,  and  these  were 
visited  with  more  of  inspiration  than  those  famous  places 
which  were  more  imposing.  A  spot  that  touched  her  deeply 
was  Shelley’s  grave  in  the  English  cemetery.  “  And  there, 
under  the  shadow  of  the  old  walls  on  one  side,  and  cypresses 
on  the  other,  lies  the  cor  cordium ,  forever  at  rest  from  the 
unloving  cavillers  of  this  world,  whether  or  not  he  may 
have  entered  on  other  purifying  struggles  in  some  world  un¬ 
seen  by  us.  The  grave  of  Keats  lies  far  off  from  Shelley’s, 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


439 


unshaded  by  wall  or  trees.  It  is  painful  to  look  upon,  be¬ 
cause  of  tlie  inscription  on  the  stone,  which  seems  to  make 
him  still  speak  in  bitterness  from  his  grave.”  There  was  an 
eye,  too,  for  what  was  human,  and  for  the  beings  now  finding 
happiness  or  pain  on  the  earth  about  her.  The  world  of  living 
human  experiences  was  always  to  her  far  more  than  any 
world  of  the  dead  past,  and  she  ever  felt  the  throb  and 
anguish  of  it,  wherever  she  might  be.  “  Oh,  the  beautiful  men 
and  women  and  children  here,”  she  wrote  to  a  friend.  “  Such 
wonderful  babies  with  wise  eyes  !  such  grand-featured  mothers 
nursing  them  !  ”  Everywhere  she  saw  the  Madonna  and  the 
child  looking  upon  her  from  the  living  human  faces.  She 
saw  a  crippled  girl  at  the  door  of  a  church  that  looked  at  them 
with  a  face  full  of  such  pathetic  sweetness  and  beauty  that 
George  Eliot  felt  the  memory  of  it  could  never  leave  her 
again.  On  the  29th  of  April  Rome  was  left,  and  the  next  day 
Naples  was  entered.  The  weather  in  Rome  had  been  very 
bad,  but  that  in  Naples  was  brilliant.  The  beauty  of  the  city 
and  the  country  about  was  enjoyed  with  enthusiasm,  and 
she  had  great  delight  in  the  transcendent  fairness  of  nature 
on  every  hand.  She  thought  that  Naples  must  be  the  most 
beautiful  city  in  the  world.  After  remaining  there  a  week 
they  set  out  in  a  carriage  for  Psestum,  visiting  Salerno  on  the 
way,  as  well  as  Sorrento  and  Amalfi.  They  took  steamer  for 
Leghorn,  and  then  on  to  Florence,  taking  a  look  at  “dear 
Pisa  under  the  blue  sky  ”  by  the  way.  Florence  was  greatly 
enjoyed,  its  architecture  and  its  paintings  eagerly  studied. 
There  were  visits  to  Fiesole,  Siena  —  “  that  fine  old  town  built 
on  an  abrupt  height  overlooking  a  wise,  wise  plaiu  ”  —  and 
Michael  Angelo’s  house  in  the  Via  Ghibellina.  George  Eliot 
was  greatly  attracted  by  the  art  treasures  of  Italy,  and  gave  to 
them  an  enthusiastic  interest,  and  yet  she  studied  them  with  a 
carefully  critical  eye,  not  always  accepting  the  popular  verdict 
in  regard  to  them.  She  was  far  too  much  in  love  with  them 
to  care  for  the  political  problems  then  agitating  Italy.  “  On 
a  first  journey  to  the  greatest  centres  of  art,”  she  wrote  to 
John  Blackwood,  “one  must  be  excused  for  letting  one’s 
public  spirit  go  to  sleep  a  little.  As  for  me,  I  am  thrown 


440 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


into  a  state  of  humiliating  passivity  by  the  sight  of  the 
great  things  done  in  the  far  past  —  it  seems  as  if  life  were 
not  long  enough  to  learn,  and  as  if  my  own  activity  were  so 
completely  dwarfed  by  comparison  that  I  should  never  have 
courage  for  more  creation  of  my  own.  There  is  only  one 
thing  that  has  an  opposite  and  stimulating  effect :  it  is  the 
comparative  rarity,  even  here,  of  great  and  truthful  art, 
and  the  abundance  of  wretched  imitation  and  falsity.  Every 
hand  is  wanted  in  the  world  that  can  do  a  little  genuine,  sin¬ 
cere  work.” 

From  Florence  the  travellers  went  to  Bologna,  Ferrara,  and 
Padua,  on  their  way  to  Venice.  The  city  by  the  sea  she  found 
to  be  more  beautiful  than  romances  had  feigned,  and  she  was 
much  impressed  by  its  quiet.  The  Palace  of  the  Doges  she 
found  to  be  what  Ruskin  had  called  it,  —  one  of  the  two  most 
perfect  buildings  in  the  world.  St.  Mark’s  was  found  to  be 
dark  and  heavy  within,  and  ill-suited  to  the  Catholic  worship. 
When  the  dreamy  beauty  of  Venice  was  left  behind,  they 
journeyed  through  Verona,  Milan,  and  by  Como,  then  across 
the  Spliigen  to  Zurich.  In  the  latter  city  Lewes  had  a  pleas¬ 
ant  interview  with  Moleschott ;  and  then  the  journey  was 
towards  home,  a  few  days  being  spent  in  Berne.  They 
arrived  home  July  1,  bringing  Charles  Lewes,  the  oldest  son 
of  Mr.  Lewes,  with  them.  A  place  was  soon  obtained  for 
him  in  the  post-office,  and  George  Eliot  exercised  over  him 
the  most  motherly  care.  One  of  her  first  tasks  on  returning 
was  the  reading  of  Sara  Hennell’s  11  Thoughts  in  Aid  of 
Faith,”  —  a  book  she  greatly  enjoyed,  and  with  which  she 
was  largely  in  sympathy.  Especially  in  its  recognition  of  the 
organic  outgrowth  of  the  present  from  the  past,  and  the  very 
great  and  highly  important  influence  exercised  by  Christianity 
on  the  life  of  the  world,  did  she  entirely  agree  with  it.  The 
need  of  being  nearer  the  city  was  felt  at  this  time,  and  a  house 
was  taken  at  10  Harewood  Square,  which  was  exchanged  after 
a  brief  period  for  one  at  16  Blandford  Square.  Not  long  after 
moving  into  the  latter  house  the  custom  was  begun  of  inviting 
a  few  friends  to  a  quiet  reception  on  Sunday  afternoons  from 
two  to  six.  At  first,  these  gatherings  consisted  of  two  or 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


441 


three  lovers  of  music,  who  came  to  play  on  the  new  piano, 
bought  at  this  time.  Then  they  grew  into  a  gathering  for 
conversation,  and  brought  together  many  of  the  leading  minds 
of  England  in  a  delightful  social  manner.  According  to  Mr. 
Cross,  these  gatherings  have' occupied  far  too  much  attention 
in  the  accounts  which  have  been  given  of  George  Eliot,  and 
she  seldom  alluded  to  them  in  her  letters.  They  were  not  an 
attempt  in  any  way  to  revive  the  spirit  of  the  Parisian  salon, 
but  merely  a  result  of  George  Eliot’s  desire  to  meet  her 
friends  without  the  necessity  of  making  and  returning  calls. 
In  a  certain  way  she  enjoyed  company,  but  she  had  not  the 
strength  for  the  social  demands  of  a  great  city  ;  and  at  these 
gatherings  she  could  meet  all  her  friends,  the  leaders  of  the 
literary,  scientific,  artistic,  and  philanthropic  circles,  as  well 
as  such  younger  and  rising  persons  as  might  choose  to  make 
her  acquaintance  in  this  way.  “  When  London  was  full,” 
says  Mr.  Kegan  Paul,  “the  little  drawing-room  in  St.  John’s 
Wood  was  now  and  then  crowded  to  overflowing  with  those 
who  were  glad  to  give  their  best  of  conversation,  of  information, 
and  sometimes  of  music,  always  to  listen  with  eager  atten¬ 
tion  to  what  their  hostess  might  say,  when  all  that  was  said 
was  worth  hearing.  Always  ready,  but  never  rapid,  her  talk 
was  not  only  good  in  itself,  but  it  encouraged  the  same  in 
others,  since  she  was  an  excellent  listener,  and  eager  to  hear.” 
“  Nearly  all  who  were  most  eminent  in  art,  science,  literature, 
philanthropy,”  says  Mr.  Frederic  Myers,  “  might  be  met  from 
time  to  time  at  her  Sunday-afternoon  receptions.  There  were 
many  women,  too,  drawn  often  from  among  very  different  tradi¬ 
tions  of  thought  and  belief,  by  the  unfeigned  goodness  which 
they  recognized  in  Mrs.  Lewes’s  look  and  speech,  and  sometimes 
illumining  with  some  fair  young  face  a  salon  whose  grave  talk 
needed  the  grace  which  they  could  bestow.  And  there  was 
sure  to  be  a  considerable  admixture  of  men  not  as  yet  famous. 
Mrs.  Lewes’s  manner  had  a  grave  simplicity,  which  rose  in 
closer  converse  into  an  almost  pathetic  anxiety  to  give  of  her 
best  —  to  establish  a  genuine  human  relation  between  herself 
and  her  interlocutor  —  to  utter  words  which  should  remain  as 
an  active  influence  for  good  in  the  he  arts  of  those  who  heard 


142 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


them.  To  some  of  her  literary  admirers  this  serious  tone  was 
distasteful ;  they  were  inclined  to  resent  the  prominence  given 
to  moral  ideas  in  a  quarter  from  which  they  preferred  to  look 
merely  for  intellectual  refreshment.  Mrs.  Lewes’s  humor, 
though  fed  from  a  deep  perception  of  the  incongruities  of 
human  fates,  had  not,  except  in  intimate  moments,  any 
buoyant  or  contagious  quality,  and  in  all  her  talk  —  full  of 
matter  and  wisdom,  and  exquisitely  worded  as  it  was  —  there 
was  the  same  pervading  air  of  strenuous  seriousness  which 
was  more  welcome  to  those  whose  object  was  distinctively  to 
learn  from  her,  than  to  those  who  merely  wished  an  idle  and 
brilliant  hour.  To  her,  these  mixed  receptions  were  a  great 
effort.  Her  mind  did  not  move  easily  from  one  individual  to 
another,  and  when  she  afterwards  thought  that  she  had  failed 
to  understand  some  difficulty  which  had  been  laid  before  her, 

—  had  spoken  the  wrong  word  to  some  expectant  heart,  —  she 
would  suffer  from  almost  morbid  accesses  of  self-reproach.” 
These  accounts  may  be  supplemented  by  that  given  by  Mr. 
Cross.  ((I  think,”  he  says,  “that  the  majority  of  visitors 
delighted  chiefly  to  come  for  the  chance  of  a  few  words  with 
George  Eliot  alone.  When  the  drawing-room  door  of  The 
Priory  opened,  a  first  glance  revealed  her  always  in  the  same 
low  arm-chair  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  fire.  On  entering, 
a  visitor’s  eye  was  at  once  arrested  by  the  massive  head. 
The  abundant  hair,  streaked  with  gray  now,  was  draped  with 
lace,  arranged  mantilla-fashion,  coming  to  a  point  at  the  top 
of  the  forehead.  If  she  were  engaged  in  conversation,  her 
body  was  usually  bent  forward  with  eager,  anxious  desire  to 
get  as  close  as  possible  to  the  person  with  whom  she  talked. 
She  had  a  great  dislike  to  raising  her  voice,  and  often  became 
so  wholly  absorbed  in  conversation  that  the  announcement  of 
an  incoming  visitor  sometimes  failed  to  attract  her  attention ; 
but  the  moment  the  eyes  were  lifted  up,  and  recognized  a 
friend,  they  smiled  a  rare  welcome,  —  sincere,  cordial,  grave, 

—  a  welcome  that  was  felt  to  come  straight  from  the  heart, 
not  graduated  according  to  any  social  distinction.  But  her 
talk,  I  think,  was  always  most  enjoyable  a  deux.  It  was  not 
produced  for  effect,  nor  from  the  lip,  but  welled  up  from  a 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


443 


neart  and  mind  intent  on  the  one  person  with  whom  she 
happened  to  be  speaking.  She  was  never  weary  of  giving  of 
her  best  so  far  as  the  wish  to  give  was  concerned.” 

There  were  also  frequent  gatherings  of  a  few  friends  to  a 
dinner  or  on  some  other  occasion,  when  only  two  or  three  were 
present.  On  these  occasions  George  Eliot  was  at  her  best, 
for  then  she  met  her  friends  face  to  face,  and  no  effort  was 
required  for  the  right  disposition  and  entertainment  of  a  large 
company.  She  enjoyed  conversation,  but  she  had  no  special 
talent  in  that  direction,  as  Lewes  had.  He  was  bright,  witty? 
full  of  vivacity,  brilliant  in  repartee  and  in  the  telling  of 
stories.  He  gave  to  the  Sunday-afternoon  gatherings  the 
element  of  life  and  social  attraction  which  was  wanting  in  her, 
and  he  was  the  real  manager  who  made  them  go  on  with  suc¬ 
cess  and  satisfaction  to  all  present.  He  could  bring  people 
together,  he  could  keep  the  conversation  moving  with  unflag¬ 
ging  interest,  and  he  could  impart  to  it  that  life  and  sparkle 
which  made  it  delightful.  One  of  the  best  of  story-tellers, 
and  with  a  remarkable  dramatic  gift,  he  was  at  home  with  all 
persons.  These  gatherings  gave  to  George  Eliot’s  life  a  much 
needed  element  of  contact  with  cultured  men  and  women, 
and  they  helped  to  add  to  her  reputation  and  her  fame.  Her 
health  did  not  permit  her  mingling  in  society  so  much  as  she 
would  have  desired,  and  she  never  entered  so  fully  into  Lon¬ 
don  life  as  she  would  have  done  had  she  been  strong  enough 
to  endure  the  fatigue  and  the  nervous  strain.  She  husbanded 
her  strength  for  literary  work,  and  brought  her  friends  to  her 
own  door. 

After  moving  to  London,  the  afternoons  were  spent  in  walk¬ 
ing,  unless  the  weather  was  very  bad.  The  Zoological  Gardens 
were  frequently  visited,  even  several  times  a  week,  and  she 
found  the  birds  and  beasts  there  most  congenial  to  her  spirit. 
The  habit  was  also  begun  of  attending  the  best  musical  enter¬ 
tainments  in  the  city ;  and,  for  the  sake  of  economy,  even  the 
popular  concerts  of  the  best  music  were  resorted  to  every 
week.  From  this  time  she  gave  up  all  attempt  to  make  visits 
to  her  friends,  and  wholly  depended  on  their  calling  on  her. 
'I  have  found  it  a  necessity  of  my  London  life,”  she  wrote 


444 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


to  one  of  them,  u  to  make  the  rule  of  never  paying  visits! 
Without  a  carriage,  and  with  my  easily  perturbed  health, 
London  distances  would  make  any  other  rule  quite  irrecon¬ 
cilable  for  me  with  any  efficient  use  of  my  days  ;  and  I  am 
obliged  to  give  up  the  few  visits  which  would  be  really  attrac¬ 
tive  and  fruitful,  in  order  to  avoid  the  many  visits  which  would 
be  the  reverse.  It  is  only  by  saying,  ‘I  never  make  visits/ 
that  I  can  escape  being  ungracious  cr  unkind — only  by  re¬ 
nouncing  all  social  intercourse  but  such  as  comes  to  our  own 
fireside,  that  I  can  escape  sacrificing  the  chief  objects  of  my 
life.  I  think  your  imagination  will  supply  all  I  have  left 
unsaid,  all  the  details  which  run  away  with  our  hours,  when 
our  life  extends  at  all  beyond  our  own  homes ;  and  I  am  not 
afraid  of  your  misinterpreting  my  stay-at-home  rule  into 
churlishness.”  This  was,  indeed,  the  only  way  in  which  she 
could  secure  the  leisure  and  the  rest  necessary  to  going  on 
with  her  writing.  It  required  the  most  careful  husbanding 
of  her  resources  physically,  in  order  to  the  doing  of  any  work 
whatever.  Her  mind  was  easily  distracted,  and  periods  of 
despondency  brought  on. 

For  some  months  after  moving  into  London  she  suffered 
greatly  from  ill-health,  and  was  affected  by  extreme  languor 
and  unbroken  fatigue  from  morning  to  night.  This  resulted 
in  utter  self-distrust  and  despair  of  ever  being  equal  to  the 
demands  of  life.  The  loss  of  the  country  was  very  bitter  to 
her,  and  it  had  its  effect  in  bringing  on  the  mental  depression. 
The  worst  result  of  this  low  state  of  body  and  mind  was  a  loss 
of  faith  in  her  own  powers,  and  an  incapacity  for  literary 
invention.  It  was  many  months  before  her  mind  had  ac¬ 
quired  the  elasticity  necessary  to  creation ;  and,  though  a  great 
project  was  revolving  in  her  mind,  she  was  not  able  to  give 
it  shape. 

She  wrote  to  Blackwood  from  Florence  that  she  had  been 
stimulated  by  that  city  "to  entertain  rather  an  ambitious 
project/’  which  she  proposed  to  keep  a  secret  from  everybody 
else.  Two  months  after  her  return  she  wrote  again  of  th  -:  same 
project:  "I  must  tell  you  the  secret,  though  I  am  distrusting 
my  power  to  make  it  grow  into  a  published  fact.  When  we 


A  LIFE  OF  GEOKGE  ELIOT. 


445 


were  in  Florence  I  was  rather  fired  with  the  idea  of  writing  an 
historical  romance  —  scene,  Florence;  period,  the  close  of  the 
fifteenth  century,  which  was  marked  by  Savonarola’s  career 
and  martyrdom.  Mr.  Lewes  has  encouraged  me  to  persevere 
in  the  project,  saying  that  I  should  probably  do  something  in 
historical  romance  rather  different  in  character  from  what 
has  been  done  before.”  It  was  her  desire,  however,  as  she 
explained  to  Blackwood,  to  write  another  English  novel  before 
beginning  this  one  on  an  historical  period.  While  delayed 
by  ill-health  from  going  on  steadily  with  her  work,  there 
came  suddenly  to  her  the  idea  of  “  Silas  Marner.”  “  It  seems 
to  me,”  she  wrote  to  her  publisher,  “  that  nobody  will  take 
any  interest  in  it  but  myself,  for  it  is  extremely  unlike  the 
popular  stories  going ;  but  Mr.  Lewes  declares  I  am  wrong, 
and  says  it  is  as  good  as  anything  I  have  done.  It  is  a  story 
of  old-fashioned  village  life,  which  has  unfolded  itself  from 
the  merest  millet-seed  of  thought.  ...  I  hope  you  will  not  find 
it  a  sad  story  as  a  whole,  since  it  sets  — or  is  intended  to  set 
—  in  a  strong  light  the  remedial  influences  of  pure,  natural 
human  relations.  The  Nemesis  is  a  very  mild  one.  I  have 
felt  all  through  as  if  the  story  would  have  lent  itself  best  to 
metrical  rather  than  to  prose  fiction,  especially  in  all  that 
relates  to  the  psychology  of  Silas  ;  except  that,  under  that 
treatment,  there  could  not  be  an  equal  play  of  humor.  It 
came  to  me  first  of  all  quite  suddenly,  as  a  sort  of  legendary 
tale,  suggested  by  my  recollection  of  having  once,  in  early 
childhood,  seen  a  linen-weaver  with  a  bag  on  his  back  ;  but, 
as  my  mind  dwelt  on  the  subject,  I  became  inclined  to  a  more 
realistic  treatment.”  On  the  10th  of  March,  1861,  “  Silas 
Marner”  was  completed.  It  was  received  with  much  favor 
on  its  first  publication,  and  it  was  generally  accepted  as  quite 
the  equal  of  her  previous  books  in  its  plot  and  in  its  power 
as  a  story. 

During  the  time  it  was  writing,  and  before,  there  were  fre¬ 
quent  visits  to  the  country  for  one  or  more  weeks.  Only  in 
that  way  could  the  health  be  kept  up  to  a  point  that  permitted 
work  to  go  on,  for  the  bad  health  was  chiefly  owing  to  the  de¬ 
pressing  influence  of  town  air  and  town  scenes.  For  the  sake 


446  A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

of  a  change  of  scene,  and.  for  the  purpose  of  becoming  mors 
familiar  with  the  proposed  scene  of  the  historical  novel,  she 
set  out  for  Florence,  in  company  with  Lewes,  on  the  19th  of 
April,  and  they  remained  there  for  about  a  month  and  a  half. 
4 hey  had  a  “  paradisiac  journey  ”  thither,  and  every  phase 
of  the  city  and  its  life  was  studied  as  carefully  as  time  and 
health  permitted.  The  city  seemed  far  lovelier  at  this  time 
than  when  first  visited,  and  there  was  a  fresh  zeal  in  seeing 
the  life  it  manifested.  This  delight  in  the  city  itself  was 
mixed  with  a  fear  of  not  being  able  to  make  anything  out  of 
the  proposed  story.  She  had  resolved  never  to  write  anything 
into  which  she  could  not  put  her  whole  heart ;  and  the  Floren¬ 
tine  spirit  had  not  yet  taken  possession  of  her.  There  were 
many  days  of  illness  to  contend  with,  but  she  could  write  of 
Florence  in  these  words  to  Charles  Lewes  :  “  I  feel  very  full 

of  thankfulness  for  all  the  creatures  I  have  got  to  love _ all 

the  beautiful  and  great  things  that  are  given  me  to  know ; 
and  I  feel,  too,  much  younger  and  more  hopeful,  as  if  a  great 
deal  of  life  and  work  were  still  before  me.  Pater  and  I  have 
had  great  satisfaction  in  finding  our  impressions  of  admiration 
more  than  renewed  in  returning  to  Florence  ;  and  the  things 
we  cared  about  when  we  were  here  before  seem  even  more 
worthy  than  they  did  in  our  memories.  We  have  had  de¬ 
lightful  weather;  and  the  evening  lights  on  the  Arno,  the 
bridges,  and  the  quaint  houses,  are  a  treat  that  we  think  of 
beforehand.”  When  she  had  returned  home  it  took  a  long 
time  to  get  “  Romola  ”  under  way.  The  story  proposed  did 
not  take  possession  of  her  life,  did  not  urge  itself  upon  her 
for  expression. 

On  the  12th  of  August  she  wrote  in  her  diary:  “Got  into  a 
state  of  so  much  wretchedness  in  attempting  to  concentrate 
my  thoughts  on  the  construction  of  my  story  that  I  became 
desperate,  and  suddenly  burst  my  bonds,  saying,  I  will  not 
think  of  writing  !  ”  It  was  not  given  up,  however ;  and  on 
the  20th  she  conceived  the  plot  with  new  distinctness.  On 
the  4th  of  October  her  mind  was  still  worried  about  the  plot, 
and  she  was  without  any  confidence  in  her  ability  to  do  what 
she  wished.  Finally,  on  the  7th  of  October  the  first  chapter 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


447 


was  begun ;  but  at  the  end  of  the  month  she  was  again  utterly 
despondent  about  the  book.  On  the  6th  of  November  she 
was  so  utterly  dejected  that,  in  walking  with  Lewes,  she 
almost  resolved  to  give  up  the  attempt  to  write  an  Italian 
novel.  On  the  10th  her  mind  was  brighter,  and  the  subject 
presented  new  attractions.  Walking  in  the  morning  sunshine 
on  the  8th  of  December  she  told  Lewes  the  plot  of  the  story? 
and  he  expressed  great  delight.  She  still  doubted  if  she 
should  be  able  to  carry  out  her  ideas ;  for  flashes  of  hope  were 
succeeded  by  long  periods  of  distrust.  On  the  12th  she  fin¬ 
ished  writing  out  the  plot,  which  she  re-wrote  several  times 
before  beginning  the  book  itself.  On  the  1st  of  January  she 
wrote  in  her  journal:  “I  began  again  my  novel  of  RomolaJ 
On  the  last  day  of  the  month  she  again  wrote :  u  It  is  impos¬ 
sible  to  me  to  believe  that  I  have  ever  been  in  so  unpromising 
and  despairing  a  state  as  I  now  feel.  After  writing  these  words 
I  read  to  George  the  Proem  and  opening  scene  of  my  novel, 
and  he  expressed  great  delight  in  them.”  There  were  trips 
into  the  country  from  time  to  time ;  but  on  the  2d  of  April 
only  seventy-seven  pages  had  been  written.  In  May,  however, 
it  had  progressed  so  far  that  she  sold  to  the  u  Cornhill  Maga¬ 
zine  ”  the  right  of  its  first  publication  for  £7000.  Towards  the 
end  of  the  year  the  work  went  on  more  rapidly ;  but  at  the 
very  last  the  old  illness  and  fear  came  back  again  in  full  force. 
It  was  completed  before  the  end  of  December ;  and  with  the 
beginning  of  the  new  year  there  are  pleasant  reports  of  its  fa¬ 
vorable  reception.  In  after  years  she  said  that  “  Romola y 
ploughed  into  her  more  deeply  than  any  of  her  other  books. 
Its  writing  was  a  great  effort,  and  it  made  a  distinct  mark  in 
her  life  towards  old  age,  and  the  loss  of  whatever  of  buoyancy 
of  mind  she  had  before.  “  I  began  it  a  young  woman  —  I  fin¬ 
ished  it  an  old  woman,”  was  her  own  remark  concerning  it 
It  was  completed  on  the  9th  of  June,  1863,  after  she  had  spent 
nearly  two  years  on  it.  The  reception  it  had  from  the  public 
was  all  that  she  could  have  desired.  She  did  an  immense 
amount  of  reading  in  preparation  for  it ;  and  she  endeavored 
in  every  way  to  make  herself  the  master  of  the  time  in  all  its 
varied  aspects 


448 


A  LIFE  OF  GEOBGE  ELIOT. 

At  the  middle  of  J une,  after  the  completion  of  (( Bomola,”  a 
trip  was  taken  to  the  Isle  of  Wight,  with  which  she  was  much 
delighted.  She  was  very  happy  in  her  holiday,  being  relieved 
from  the  long  strain  of  writing,  and  she  found  a  fresh  charm 
in  the  hedgerow  grasses  and  flowers.  In  August  there  was  a 
visit  to  Worthing,  and  the  friendship  was  made  of  Mrs.  Julius 
Haie,  whose  death  not  long  after  George  Eliot  sincerely 
mourned.  u  The  wide  sky,  the  not  London,”  she  wrote  from 
Worthing,  “  makes  a  new  creature  of  me  in  half  an  hour.  I 
wonder,  then,  why  I  am  ever  depressed  —  why  I  am  so  shaken 
by  agitations.  I  come  back  to  London,  and  again  the  air  is 
full  of  demons.”  Her  enjoyment  of  the  country  was  very 
great,  and  she  found  delight  in  all  its  freshness  and  beauty. 
It  revived  her  drooping  spirits,  took  away  her  melancholy  and 
her  feeling  of  being  incapable  of  good  work,  and  made  of  her 
a  new  being.  It  was  also  necessary  to  her  enjoyment  of  life 
that  she  should  be  within  reach  of  the  intellectual  stimulus  of 
the  city,  its  libraries,  its  art  collections,  and  its  music.  The 
lesult  was  a  succession  of  periods  of  ill-health  and  discourage¬ 
ment,  and  a  frequent  rushing  away  into  the  country  to  get 
rid  of  them.  Hot  six  months  passed  without  a  visit  to  the 
country  duiing  her  London  residence.  In  this  way  only  was 

she  enabled  to  go  on  with  her  work,  and  to  keep  a  fair  degree 
of  health. 

In  July,  1863,  there  was  mentioned  the  project  of  buying 
The  Priory,  21  North  Bank,  Begent’s  Park.  On  the  5th  of 
November  they  went  to  live  in  this  house.  This  was  in  accord¬ 
ance  with  a  purpose  long  before  formed  of  taking  a  house  per¬ 
manently  as  soon  as  it  could  be  done  with  convenience.  Mr. 
Lewes’s  three  sons  were  now  provided  for,  and  a  house  that 
would  give  more  of  the  feeling  of  home  was  desired.  The 
Priory  proved  to  be  admirably  adapted  to  their  needs,  with  its 
pleasant  interior,  and  its  garden  and  trees  without.  George 
Eliot  gave  herself  to  the  task  of  fitting  it  to  their  needs,  and 
it  soon  became  as  homelike  and  attractive  as  they  could  wish. 
Owen  Jones  decorated  the  drawing-room,  selected  the  furni¬ 
ture,  and  took  unwearied  pains  that  everything  about  them 
might  be  pretty.  (< He  stayed  two  nights  till  after  twelve 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


449 


\ 

o'clock,”  she  wrote, “that  he  might  see  every  engraving  hung  in 
the  right  place  ;  and  as  you  know  I  care  even  more  about  the 
fact  of  kindness  than  its  effects,  you  will  understand  that  I 
enjoy  being  grateful  for  all  this  friendliness  on  our  behalf. 
You  would  have  liked  to  hear  Jansa  play  on  his  violin,  and 
you  would  perhaps  have  been  amused  to  see  an  affectionate 
friend  of  yours  splendid  in  a  gray  moire-antique  —  the  conse¬ 
quence  of  a  severe  lecture  from  Owen  Jones  on  her  general 
neglect  of  personal  adornment.  I  am  glad  to  have  got  over 
this  crisis  of  maternal  and  housekeeping  duty.  My  soul  never 
flourishes  on  attention  to  details  which  others  manage  quite 
gracefully  without  any  conscious  loss  of  power  for  wider 
thoughts  and  cares.” 

At  this  time  she  writes  of  indulging  herself  in  being  petted 
very  much,  enjoying  great  books,  enjoying  the  new,  quiet,  and 
pretty  home,  and  the  study  of  Beethoven’s  sonatas  for  piano 
and  violin  with  the  mild-faced  old  Jansa,  and  not  being  at  all 
unhappy.  There  was  no  project  of  a  new  book  on  foot,  and 
her  mind  lay  fallow  for  some  months  after  the  completion  of 
“  Bomola.”  The  first  week  in  April,  1864,  was  spent  in  ScoL 
land,  and  in  May  they  started  for  Italy.  Seven  weeks  only 
were  they  absent  from  home  ;  but  they  went  through  Paris, 
Turin,  and  Milan,  to  Venice,  where  they  spent  two  weeks,  and 
returned  through  Padua,  Verona,  Brescia,  and  Milan  on  the 
way  home.  They  crossed  over  the  Alps  by  St.  Gothard,  and 
stayed  a  day  or  two  at  Lucerne.  They  were  accompanied 
during  most  of  this  journey  by  Mr.  Burton  the  artist,  who 
proved  a  pleasant  travelling  companion.  On  the  return  home 
the  old  doubt  and  discouragement  came  back  to  her  again. 
The  change  from  the  active  life  of  a  traveller  to  the  quiet  and 
inactivity  of  home  was  always  too  much  for  her  health,  and  a 
time  of  depression  followed.  In  her  journal  she  wrote,  under 
date  of  July  17  :  “  Horrible  scepticism  about  all  things  para¬ 
lyzing  my  mind.  Shall  I  ever  be  good  for  anything  again  ? 
Ever  do  anything  again  ?  ”  The  working  days  were  not  over, 
however ;  and  on  the  6th  of  September  she  records  the  begin¬ 
ning  of  another  work,  but  with  fear  and  trembling:  “I  am 
reading  about  Spain,  and  trying  a  drama  on  a  subject  that  has 

YOL.  IV-  29 


450 


A  LIFE  OF  GEOBGE  ELIOT. 

fascinated  me  —  have  written  the  prologue,  and  am  beginning 
the  first  act.  But  I  have  little  hope  of  making  anything  satis¬ 
factory.”  In  September  a  trip  was  taken  to  Harrogate,  Scar¬ 
borough,  and  York  Cathedral,  and  under  this  stimulus  the  poem 
went  slowly  on.  The  study  of  Spanish  history  and  literature 
was  taken  up ;  but  there  came  days  of  weakness  and  ennui,  so 
that  the  effort  at  creation  oppressed  her  mind  sorely.  Not 
until  the  end  of  December  was  the  third  act  completed.  The 
entry  made  in  her  journal  of  her  thoughts  at  the  closing  of 
the  year  are  characteristic  of  her,  showing  the  hope  and  fear 
with  which  she  constantly  struggled.  “With  me  the  year  has 
not  been  fruitful.  I  have  written  three  acts  of  my  drama,  and 
am  now  in  a  condition  of  body  and  mind  to  make  me  hope  for 
better  things  in  the  coming  year.  The  last  quarter  has  made 
an  epoch  for  me,  by  the  fact  that,  for  the  first  time  in  my 
serious  authorship,  I  have  written  verse.  In  each  other  we  are 
happier  than  ever.”  At  the  beginning  of  the  new  year  another 
poetical  subject  was  taken  up,  and  “  My  Vegetarian  Friend  ” 
was  written,  which  she  also  called  “Utopias,”  but  finally  pub¬ 
lished  as  “  A  Minor  Poet.”  This  was  the  first  poem  which 
she  completed.  In  January  a  visit  was  made  to  Paris,  and  it 
was  greatly  enjoyed.  The  most  interesting  sight  she  saw  was 
Comte’s  dwelling.  “  Such  places,”  she  wrote,  “  that  knew  the 
great  dead,  always  move  me  deeply  ;  and  I  had  an  unexpected 
sight  of  interest  in  the  photograph  taken  at  the  very  last.” 
This  wintry  expedition  brightened  her  much. 

Towards  the  end  of  February  she  was  again  ill  and  very 
miserable.  Lewes  took  the  poem  away  from  her,  feeling  that 
she  was  worrying  over  it  far  too  much.  After  writing  half  a 
dozen  newspaper  articles,  she  was  once  more  busily  employed 
on  a  new  novel.  This  time  she  chose  an  English  scene,  and 
one  connected  with  the  earliest  recollections  of  her  childhood. 
Begun  the  last  of  March,  she  was  going  “ doggedly  to  work” 
on  it  the  last  of  J uly.  In  August  an  expedition  of  a  few  weeks 
was  made  into  Brittany,  where  she  found  much  to  enjoy  in  the 
Norman  churches,  the  great  cathedrals  at  Le  Mans,  Tours,  and 
Chartres,  with  their  marvellous  painted  glass;  and  she  thought 
them  quite  worth  the  scramble  necessary  to  see  them.  In  the 


^  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


451 


Autumn  “  Felix  Holt  ”  was  again  under  way  ;  but  at  the  very 
end  of  the  year  she  was  “  sticking  in  the  mud,”  in  doubt  about 
its  construction.  Soon  after,  the  first  volume  having  been 
completed,  the  aid  of  Frederic  Harrison  was  secured  in  regard 
to  the  legal  aspects  of  the  story.  He  was  freely  consulted  in 
regard  to  it,  and  his  advice  obtained  in  relation  to  other  points 
than  those  of  law.  She  also  took  the  utmost  pains  to  get  a 
true  idea  of  the  reform  period  of  1832,  which  she  sketched  in 
this  novel.  She  went  to  the  British  Museum  and  consulted 
the  files  of  the  “  Times  ”  for  the  whole  period,  “  to  be  sure  of 
as  many  details  as  I  could.”  In  January  she  had  “  no  confi¬ 
dence  that  the  book  would  ever  be  worthily  written  ;  ”  but  in 
April  the  first  two  volumes  were  sent  to  the  publisher.  There 
followed  a  trip  to  Dorking,  and  on  the  last  day  of  May  “  Felix 
Holt  ”  was  completed,  after  days  and  nights  of  throbbing  pal¬ 
pitation  and  nervous  excitement.  When  it  was  off  her  hands 
she  was  a  new  creature  at  once. 

On  the  7th  of  June,  1866,  they  set  out  on  an  expedition  to 
Holland,  going  first  to  Antwerp,  thence  to  Rotterdam,  the 
Hague,  Leyden,  Amsterdam,  Cologne,  and  Coblentz.  A  fort¬ 
night  was  spent  at  Schwalbach,  then  they  went  down  the 
Rhine  to  Bonn  and  on  to  Aix  and  Liege,  and  back  by  the  way 
of  Ghent,  Bruges,  and  Ostend.  From  Ostend  the  passage  home 
was  very  rough,  and  they  suffered  from  it  for  many  days,. 
Twenty  days  after  reaching  home,  on  the  30th  of  August, 
<;The  Spanish  Gypsy  ”  was  once  more  taken  up,  and  the  read¬ 
ing  of  Spanish  books  was  begun  again.  “Now  I  read  it  again,” 
she  wrote  to  Frederic  Harrison,  “I  felt  it  impossible  to  aban¬ 
don  it ;  the  conceptions  move  me  deeply,  and  they  have  never 
been  wrought  out  before.  There  is  not  a  thought  or  symbol 
that  I  do  not  long  to  use  :  but  the  whole  requires  recasting ; 
and,  as  I  never  recast  anything  before,  I  think  of  the  issue 
very  doubtfully.  When  one  has  to  work  out  the  dramatic 
action  for  one’s  self,  under  the  inspiration  of  an  idea,  instead 
of  having  a  grand  myth  or  an  Italian  novel  ready  to  one’s 
hand,  one  feels  anything  but  omnipotent.  Not  that  I  should 
have  done  any  better  if  I  had  had  the  myth  or  novel,  for  I  am 
not  a  good  user  of  opportunities.  I  think  I  have  the  right 


452 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

locus  and  historic  conditions,  but  much  else  is  wanting  ”  The 
actual  work  of  rewriting  was  begun  October  15,  but  there 
was  a  visit  to  Tunbridge  in  the  early  days  of  December.  On 
the  11th  of  that  month  they  set  out  for  Paris,  and  thence  pro¬ 
ceeded  to  Spain  after  a  brief  period. 

The  three  days  spent  in  Paris  had  their  attraction  in  the 
companionship  of  Madame  Mohl,  Professor  Scherer,  Jules 
Simon,  and  Ernest  Renan.  She  breakfasted  with  Renan, 
whose  appearance  she  described  as  something  between  the 
Catholic  priest  and  the  Dissenting  minister.  “  His  manners 
are  very  amiable,  his  talk  pleasant,  but  not  distinguished,”  was 
her  description  of  him  to  one  of  her  correspondents.  From 
Paris  the  travellers  proceeded  to  Bairritz,  where  she  enjoyed 
the  transcendent  natural  beauties,  and  where  she  found  new 
interest  in  the  reading  of  Comte.  They  spent  the  days  in 
walking  and  in  reading  the  “  Politique,”  especially  devoting 
the  mornings  to  the  study  of  the  great  philosopher.  “  That 
morning  study,”  she  wrote,  “  keeps  me  in  a  state  of  enthusiasm 
through  the  day  a  moral  glow,  which  is  a  sort  of  milieu  sub- 
jectif  for  the  sublime  sea  and  sky.” 

Then  they  proceeded  to  San  Sebastian  and  to  Barcelona,  and 
they  had  perfect  weather,  blue  skies,  and  a  warm  sun,  in  all 
which  she  took  much  delight.  Proceeding  through  Aragon 
and  Catalonia,  they  visited  Granada,  Cordova,  and  Seville.  She 
found  none  of  the  stories  of  book-makers  concerning  the  dis¬ 
comforts  of  Spanish  travel  to  be  true,  and  she  got  a  great  deal 
of  pleasure  out  of  the  journey.  “  We  have  had  a  glorious 
journey,”  was  the  unwonted  enthusiasm  with  which  she 
described  it. 

She  returned  home  with  new  zeal  for  her  work,  and  wrote 
in  her  journal,  “  I  go  to  my  poem  and  the  construction  of  two 
prose  works  —  if  possible.”  The  main  object  of  the  journey 
into  Spain  was  the  securing  of  a  local  coloring  for  the  drama¬ 
tic  poem  which  she  now  proposed  to  complete.  She  felt  the 
old  mistrust  of  her  own  powers,  and  all  the  more  so  in  this 
case,  as  the  kind  of  work  she  proposed  was  new  to  her.  She 
was  impelled  to  go  on  with  it,  however,  for  the  impulse  of 
creation  was  too  strong  for  her  doubt,  and  always  mastered  it 


455 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

in  the  end.  Soon  after  her  return  to  The  Priory  she  wrote  of 
the  poem  to  her  publisher  :  “  The  work  connected  with  Spain 
is  not  a  romance.  It  is  — prepare  your  fortitude  —  it  is  —  a 
poem.  I  conceived  the  plot,  and  wrote  nearly  the  whole  as  a 
drama  in  1864.  Mr.  Lewes  advised  me  to  put  it  by  for  a  time 
and  take  it  up  again,  with  a  view  of  recasting  it.  I  need  not 
tell  you  that  I  am  not  hopeful,  but  I  am  quite  sure  the  subject 
is  line.  It  is  not  historic,  but  has  merely  historic  connections. 
The  plot  was  wrought  out  entirely  as  an  incorporation  of  my 
own  ideas.  Of  course,  if  it  is  ever  finished  to  my  satisfaction, 
it  is  not  a  work  for  us  to  get  money  by  ;  but  Mr.  Lewes  urges 

and  insists  that  it  shall  be  done.” 

As  in  the  case  of  her  first  novel,  it  needed  all  the  encourage¬ 
ment  which  Lewes  could  give  to  induce  her  to  go  on  with  the 
work  she  had  undertaken,  against  the  constant  feeling  of 
doubt  concerning  her  own  powers.  Under  the  pressure  of  this 
distrust  she  worked  slowly  and  with  much  hesitation.  In  July 
a  flight  was  made  to  North  Germany,  chiefly  to  Dresden  ;  but 
they  also  visited  Ilmenau,  Berlin,  Cassel,  and  Hanover.  Dur¬ 
ing  this  trip  the  poem  was  making  progress,  and  in  December 
it  was  put  into  type  so  far  as  written.  She  was  anxious  to  be 
able  to  judge  of  it  as  it  would  appear  in  print,  but  equally 
anxious  that  no  word  of  it  should  come  to  the  public.  Her 
whole  life  was  wrapped  up  in  the  work  she  had  in  hand,  but 
she  also  had  a  critical  desire  that  it  should  be  made  as  perfect 
as  possible  before  publication.  She  could  only  work  while  her 
mind  was  in  a  glow  with  her  subject ;  and  when  the  ardor  of 
creation  was  gone  her  own  work  seemed  like  that  of  some 
other  person.  It  is  this  fact  which  makes  the  following  words 
to  John  Blackwood  full  of  interest;  u  Ihe  theory  of  laying  by 
poems  for  nine  years  may  be  a  fine  one,  but  it  could  not  an¬ 
swer  for  me  to  apply  it.  I  could  no  more  live  through  one 
of  my  books  a  second  time  than  I  can  live  through  last  year 
again.  But  I  like  to  keep  checks  on  myself,  and  not  to  create 
external  temptations  to  do  what  I  should  think  foolish  in 
another.”  The  fresh  and  stirring  interest  of  the  moment  was 
necessary  with  her  to  the  accomplishment  of  the  best  things 

in  literature. 


454 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


In  her  journal  she  recorded  from  time  to  time  the  progress 
of  “  The  Spanish  Gypsy,”  and  at  the  end  of  the  year  she  wrote 
to  her  publisher :  “  Mr.  Lewes  is  in  an  unprecedented  state  of 
delight  with  the  poem,  now  that  he  is  reading  it  with  close 
care.  He  says  that  he  is  astonished  that  he  can’t  find  more 
faults.  He  is  especially  pleased  with  the  sense  of  variety  it 
gives ;  and  this  testimony  is  worth  the  more  because  he  urged 
me  to  put  the  poem  by  (in  1865)  on  the  ground  of  monotony. 
He  is  really  exultant  about  it  now.”  She  also  wrote  to  her 
publisher  wise  instructions  about  the  publication  of  the  book, 
that  it  should  at  first  be  announced  simply  as  “  a  poem,”  and 
then,  a  little  later,  by  its  title.  In  March  of  1868  there  was  a 
few  weeks’  visit  to  Torquay,  and  she  returned  home  with  the 
fourth  book  of  the  poem  completed.  Throughout  the  time  of 
its  composition  she  depended  constantly  on  the  sympathy  and 
advice  of  her  husband,  and  at  the  middle  of  April  she  men¬ 
tions  a  great  change  in  the  plot,  which  he  had  suggested. 
“  The  poem  will  be  less  tragic  than  I  threatened  :  Mr.  Lewes 
has  prevailed  on  me  to  return  to  my  original  conception,  and 
give  up  the  additional  development,  which  I  determined  on 
subsequently.  The  poem  is  rather  shorter’  in  consequence. 
Don’t  you  think  that  my  artistic  deference  and  pliability  de¬ 
serve  that  it  should  also  be  better  in  consequence  ?  I  now 
end  it  as  I  determined  to  end  it  when  I  first  conceived  the 
story.”  It  is  probable,  though  we  do  not  know  the  second 
proposed  ending,  that  the  interference  of  Lewes  was  wise. 

On  the  29th  of  April  “  The  Spanish  Gypsy  ”  was  completed. 
In  some  notes  made  on  the  origin  and  purpose  of  the  poem 
she  says  it  was  suggested  by  an  Annunciation,  supposed  to  be 
by  Titian.  This  small  picture  hangs  in  the  Scuola  di’  San 
Rocco  at  Venice,  and  it  acted  merely  as  a  hint  to  a  train  of 
thought  on  the  law  of  sacrifice  and  renunciation.  “  It  oc¬ 
curred  to  me  that  here  was  a  great  dramatic  motive  of  the 
same  class  as  those  used  by  the  Greek  dramatists,  yet  specifi¬ 
cally  differing  from  them.  A  young  maiden,  believing  herself 
to  be  on  the  eve  of  the  chief  event  in  her  life  —  marriage  — 
about  to  share  in  the  ordinary  lot  of  womanhood,  full  of  young 
hope,  has  suddenly  announced  to  her  that  she  is  chosen  to 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


455 


fulfil  a  great  destiny,  entailing  a  terribly  different  experience 
from  that  of  ordinary  womanhood.  She  is  chosen,  not  by  any 
momentary  arbitrariness,  but  as  a  result  of  foregoing  heredi¬ 
tary  conditions :  she  obeys.”  It  was  this  line  of  thought,  sug¬ 
gested  by  the  little  picture,  which  she  returned  home  with 
from  Venice,  and  it  possessed  her  mind  until  it  had  been 
worked  out  into  the  poem. 

In  endeavoring  to  find  a  fitting  historic  setting  for  this  idea, 
she  was  led  to  think  that  the  moment  in  Spanish  history  when 
the  struggle  with  the  Moors  had  reached  its  climax,  and  when 
the  Gypsies  were  making  an  effort  in  behalf  of  their  own  race, 
presented  the  best  opportunities  for  working  out  the  germinal 
thought  of  the  poem.  These  conditions  produced  the  racial 
claim  which  was  to  destroy  the  purposes  of  the  individual,  and 
thus  gave  the  tragedy  of  the  work.  The  claim  of  fidelity  to 
social  pledges,  the  great  claim  which  humanity  has  upon  us 
to  obey  its  law  of  help,  is  the  thought  which  runs  through  the 
poem  and  gives  it  purpose.  The  struggle  which  grows  out  of 
the  conflict  of  this  purpose  with  the  common  ends  of  life  con¬ 
stitutes  its  tragic  element.  In  her  own  words  of  interpreta¬ 
tion,  “  Silva  presents  the  tragedy  of  entire  rebellion ;  Fedalma 
of  a  grand  submission,  which  is  rendered  vain  by  the  effects  of 
Silva’s  rebellion ;  Zarca,  the  struggle  for  a  great  end,  rendered 
vain  by  the  surrounding  conditions  of  life.” 

She  “ only  expected  the  unfavorable”  in  regard  to  the  re. 
ception  of  her  poem  by  the  public.  Having  an  established 
reputation  as  a  novelist,  a  new  claim  on  public  regard  she 
feared  would  be  established  only  with  difficulty,  and  she  pre¬ 
pared  her  mind  for  failure.  Happily  the  poem  was  favorably 
received,  and  in  that  fact  she  found  courage  for  more  poetic 
writing  in  the  near  future. 

Having  completed  her  task,  the  next  two  months  were  spent 
in  a  trip  to  Baden.  On  this,  as  on  all  other  similar  occasions, 
she  went  in  the  company  of  her  husband.  Only  once  or  twice 
during  the  years  they  lived  together  did  either  take  a  journey 
without  the  other,  and  these  were  on  purposes  of  business,  and 
not  in  search  of  enjoyment  or  health.  They  went  by  the  way 
of  Dover,  Bonn,  and  Frankfort,  to  Baden,  where  they  spent 


456 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


nine  days,  then  to  Petersthal  for  three  weeks,  and  home  by  the 
way  of  Freiburg,  Interlaken,  and  Paris.  The  two  months  were 
“  spent  delightfully  in  seeing  fresh  natural  beauties,  and  with 
the  occasional  cheering  influence  of  kind  people.”  In  Sep¬ 
tember  there  was  an  “  extremely  agreeable  ”  visit  to  Yorkshire 
for  the  sake  of  seeing  two  or  three  intimate  friends.  Novem¬ 
ber  brought  a  journey  to  Sheffield,  and  a  recognition  there 
of  places  she  had  seen  in  her  father’s  company  thirty  years 
before.  “We  enjoyed  our  journey  to  the  North,”  she  wrote  to 
Madame  Bodichon.  “  It  was  a  great  experience  to  me  to  see 
the  stupendous  iron -works  at  Sheffield ;  and  then,  for  variety, 
we  went  to  the  quiet  and  beauty  of  Matlock,  and  I  recognized 
all  the  spots  I  had  carried  in  my  memory  for  more  than  five- 
and-twenty  years.  I  drove  through  that  region  with  my  father 
when  I  was  a  young  girl  —  not  very  full  of  hope  about  my 
woman’s  future.  I  am  one  of  those  perhaps  exceptionable 
people  whose  early,  childish  dreams  were  much  less  happy 
than  the  real  outcome  of  life.”  During  the  last  days  of  the 
year  she  records  the  popularity  of  “  The  Spanish  Gypsy,”  and 
rejoices  in  this  fact  because  it  is  a  testimony  to  the  worth  of 
positivism.  On  the  last  day  of  the  year  she  made  her  cus¬ 
tomary  statement  in  her  journal  of  what  the  year  had  done 
for  her.  This  record  has  more  of  hope  in  it  than  on  other  occa¬ 
sions  of  a  like  nature ;  but  there  is  the  same  close  self-inspec¬ 
tion  and  yearning  after  the  higher  results  of  life.  “  It  has 
been  as  rich  in  blessings  as  any  preceding  year  of  our  double 
life,  and  I  enjoy  a  more  and  more  even  cheerfulness  and  con¬ 
tinually  increasing  power  of  dwelling  on  the  good  that  is  given 
to  me  and  dismissing  the  thought  of  small  evils.  I  have  per¬ 
haps  gained  a  little  higher  ground  and  firmer  footing  in  some 
studies,  notwithstanding  the  yearly  loss  of  retentive  power. 
We  have  made  some  new  friendships  that  cheer  us  with  the 
sense  of  new  admiration  of  actual  living  beings  whom  we 
know  in  the  flesh,  and  who  are  kindly  disposed  towards  us. 
And  we  have  no  real  trouble.  I  wish  we  were  not  in  a 
minority  of  our  fellow-men.  I  desire  no  added  blessing  for 
the  coming  year  but  this  —  that  I  may  do  some  good,  lasting 
work,  and  make  both  my  outward  and  inward  habits  less 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT.  457 

imperfect  —  that  is,  more  directly  tending  to  the  best  uses 
of  life.” 

With  the  beginning  of  1869  she  wrote  in  her  journal  that 
she  had  set  for  herself  many  tasks  during  the  year.  “  I  won¬ 
der  how  many  will  be  accomplished  ?  —  a  novel  called  Middle- 
march,  a  long  poem  on  Timoleon,  and  several  minor  poems.” 
The  success  of  “  The  Spanish  Gypsy  ”  led  her  to  write  more 
and  more  in  verse,  and  it  was  but  a  few  weeks  before  she  had 
completed  “  Agatha  ”  and  “  How  Lisa  loved  the  King.”  Dur¬ 
ing  the  first  week  in  March  they  set  out  on  an  Italian  journey 
which  lasted  nine  weeks.  In  that  time  they  went  through 
France  to  Marseilles,  along  the  Cornice  to  Spezia,  then  to  Pisa, 
Florence,  Naples,  Rome,  Assisi,  Perugia,  Florence  again,  Ra¬ 
venna,  Bologna,  Verona;  across  the  Brenner  Pass  to  Munich; 
then  to  Paris  via  Strasburg.  Her  health  was  the  worst  it  had 
ever  been  on  any  of  her  journeys,  but  she  found  much  interest 
in  renewing  old  memories  and  recording  new  ones. 

A  few  weeks  after  their  return  home  Mr.  Lewes’s  son  Thorn¬ 
ton  arrived  from  Natal  wasted  away  with  an  incurable  disease, 
the  result  of  an  injury  he  sustained  years  before.  He  was 
carefully  nursed  through  many  months  of  growing  weakness 
until  his  death.  The  letters  of  George  Eliot  at  this  time  are 
full  of  her  interest  in  this  young  man,  and  of  the  sorrow  she 
felt  at  beholding  his  sufferings.  During  the  summer  “  Middle- 
march  ”  was  begun,  and  there  were  two  or  three  visits  to  the 
country.  In  October  Thornton  Lewes  died,  and  immediately 
after  they  went  into  the  quietest  and  most  beautiful  part  of 
Surrey,  four  miles  and  a  half  from  any  railway  station.  “  I 
was  very  much  shaken  in  mind  and  body,”  she  wrote  to  Sara 
Hennell,  a  and  nothing  but  the  deep  calm  of  fields  and  woods 
would  have  had  a  beneficent  effect  on  me.  We  both  of  us  felt, 
more  than  ever  before,  the  blessedness  of  being  in  the  country, 
and  we  are  come  back  much  restored.” 

During  the  opening  days  of  1870  “The  Legend  of  Jubal” 
was  written.  In  the  spring  there  was  a  revisit  of  Berlin  and 
Vienna,  which  lasted  for  eight  weeks.  They  met  Mommsen, 
Bunsen,  and  Du  Bois  Reymond,  and  she  received  much  atten¬ 
tion.  She  did  not  enjoy  the  distinctions  given  to  a  literarj 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


458 

celebrity,  and  so  wrote  to  Mrs.  Congreve  :  “  If  I  had  been  in 
good  health  I  should  probably  have  continued  to  be  more 
amused  than  tired  of  sitting  on  a  sofa  and  having  one  person 
after  another  brought  up  to  bow  to  me,  and  pay  me  the  same 
compliment.  Even  as  it  was,  I  felt  my  heart  go  out  to  some 
good  women  who  seemed  really  to  have  an  affectionate  feeling  • 
towards  me  for  the  sake  of  my  books.  But  the  sick  animal 
longs  for  quiet  and  darkness.”  On  her  return  home  she  wrote 
in  her  journal  of  continued  and  growing  bodily  ailment :  “  My 
health  is  in  an  uncomfortable  state,  and  I  seem  to  be  all  the 
weaker  for  the  continual  depression  produced  by  cold  and  sore 
throat,  which  stretched  itself  all  through  our  journey.  These 
small  bodily  grievances  make  life  less  desirable  to  me,  though 
every  one  of  my  best  blessings  —  my  one  perfect  love,  and  the 
sympathy  shown  towards  me  for  the  sake  of  my  works,  and 
the  personal  regard  of  a  few  friends  —  have  become  much  in¬ 
tensified  in  these  latter  days.  I  am  not  hopeful  about  future 
work.  I  am  languid,  and  my  novel  languishes  too.  But  to¬ 
morrow  may  be  better  than  to-day.”  Bodily  infirmity  in¬ 
creased  upon  her  with  every  year,  and  there  was  less  of 
courage  and  hope  with  which  to  meet  it.  There  came  longer 
and  still  longer  periods  of  unproductivity,  and  more  frequent 
journeys  in  the  search  of  rest  and  fresh  vitality. 

After  only  a  few  days  at  home  there  was  a  visit  to  Oxford 
to  hold  converse  with  friends  and  to  see  the  University.  They 
spent  a  few  days  with  the  Rev.  Mark  Pattison,  and  they  met 
Jowett,  Rawlinson,  Brodie,  and  other  professors.  The  health 
of  Lewes  giving  way,  there  were  more  Sittings  into  the  country, 
first  to  Cromer,  then  to  Harrogate  and  Whitby.  Health  not 
being  found  at  these  places  of  resort,  the  Surrey  retreat  at 
Limpsfield  was  again  sought  out.  She  found  it  an  earthly 
paradise ;  and  there  they  enjoyed  again  their  old  habit  of 
walking  and  reading.  The  country  rest  enabled  her  to  com¬ 
plete  "  Armgart,”  which  had  been  commenced  a  little  before. 
These  many  wanderings  made  her  return  home  full  of  new 
satisfaction  j  and  there  came  a  longing  for  a  settled  habitation, 
and  a  peaceful  pursuit  of  uninterrupted  days.  “To  me  the 
most  desirable  thing  just  now  seems  to  be  to  have  one  home, 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


45# 


ana  stay  there  till  death  comes  to  take  me  away.  I  get  more 
and  more  disinclined  to  the  perpetual  makeshifts  of  a  migra¬ 
tory  life,  and  care  more  and  more  for  the  order  and  habitual 
objects  of  home.  However,  there  are  many  in  the  world 
whose  whole  existence  is  a  makeshift,  and  perhaps  the  for¬ 
mula  which  would  ht  the  largest  number  of  lives  is  ‘a  doing 
without,  more  or  less  patiently.’  ” 

During  this  year  “  Middlemarch,”  at  first  called  “Miss 
Brooke,”  was  begun ;  but  the  progress  made  was  very  slow, 
only  about  a  hundred  pages  being  written  at  the  end  of  the 
year.  At  Christmas  they  visited  Ryde,  on  the  Isle  of  Wight, 
where  their  friend  Madame  Bodichon  was  spending  a  few 
weeks.  “We  had  a  pleasant  and  healthy  visit,  walking  much 
in  the  frosty  air,”  she  wrote  of  it  on  her  return  home.  All 
through  these  months  of  1870  her  heart  went  out  in  sympathy 
for  the  suffering  caused  by  the  Franco-Prussian  war ;  and  her 
correspondence  shows  how  much  she  felt  the  importance  of 
the  conflict  that  was  being  carried  on  with  such  energy.  At 
first  her  sympathies  were  with  the  Germans,  and  she  wrote 
strong  words  of  the  selfishness  of  the  French,  who  made  war 
simply  for  glory.  As  the  war  went  on,  and  the  relentless  Prus* 
sian  armies  laid  waste  so  much  of  France,  she  felt  the  bittei 
cruelty  of  war,  even  for  a  righteous  cause.  “No  people  can 
carry  on  a  long,  fierce  war  without  being  brutalized  by  it,”  she 
wrote,  “more  or  less,  and  it  pains  me  that  the  educated  voices 
have  not  a  higher  moral  tone  about  national  and  international 
duties  and  prospects.  But,  like  every  one  else,  I  feel  that  the 
war  is  too  much  for  me,  and  am  rather  anxious  to  avoid  un¬ 
wise  speech  about  it  than  to  utter  what  may  seem  to  me  to  be 
wisdom.  The  pain  is  that  one  can  do  so  little.” 

With  the  return  of  spring  bodily  depression  came  on  once 
more,  “  chiefly  languor  and  occasionally  positive  ailments: 
The  result  was,  that  on  the  first  of  May  they  went  into  Surrey 
to  Shottermill,  where  the  whole  of  the  summer  was  spent 
Here  they  took  a  queer  cottage  of  Mrs.  Anne  Gilchrist,  who 
edited  her  husband’s  biography  of  William  Blake  and  wrote 
a  life  of  Mary  Lamb.  The  cold  summer  was  not  health- 
inspiring  to  George  Eliot,  and  she  suffered  much  from  the 


460 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


want  of  sunshine  and  warmth.  Otherwise  the  summer  was 
full  of  delight ;  and  she  gave  a  happy  picture  of  the  manner 
in  which  she  spent  her  time  :  “We  enjoy  our  roomy  house 
and  pretty  lawn  greatly.  Imagine  me  seated  near  a  window, 
opening  under  a  veranda,  with  flowers  and  lawn  and  pretty 
hills  in  sight,  my  feet  on  a  warm-water  bottle,  and  my  writing 
on  my  knees.  In  that  attitude  my  mornings  are  passed.  We 
dine  at  two ;  and  at  four,  when  the  tea  comes  in,  I  begin  to 
read  aloud.  About  six  or  half-past  we  walk  on  to  the  commons 
and  see  the  great  sky  over  our  head.  At  eight  we  are  usually 
in  the  house  again,  and  fill  our  evening  with  physics,  chemis¬ 
try,  or  other  wisdom,  if  our  heads  are  at  par ;  if  not,  we  take 
to  folly,  in  the  shape  of  Alfred  de  Musset’s  poems,  or  some¬ 
thing  akin  to  them.”  To  Lewes  renewed  health  had  come,  and 
he  was  very  busy  with  his  physiological  and  other  kindred 
studies,  and  in  the  writing  of  his  system  of  philosophy. 
“  George  is  gloriously  well,”  she  wrote,  “  and  studying,  writing, 
walking,  eating,  and  sleeping  with  equal  vigor.  He  is  enjoy¬ 
ing  life  here  immensely.  Our  country  could  hardly  be  surpassed 
in  its  particular  kind  of  beauty  —  perpetual  undulation  of 
heath  and  copse,  and  clear  views  of  running  water,  with  here 
and  there  a  grand  pine  wood,  steep,  wood-clothed  promontories, 
and  gleaming  pools.”  To  another  friend  she  gave  an  account 
of  other  aspects  of  their  life  in  this  happy  retreat :  “We  have 
a  ravishing  country  round  us,  and  pure  air  and  water ;  in  short, 
all  the  conditions  of  health,  if  the  east  wind  were  away.  Wo 
have  old  prints  for  our  dumb  companions  —  charming  children 
of  Sir  Joshua’s,  and  large-hatted  ladies  of  his  and  Romney’s. 
I  read  aloud  —  almost  all  the  evening  —  books  of  German 
science,  and  other  gravities.  So,  you  see,  we  are  like  two 
secluded  owls,  wise  with  unfashionable  wisdom,  and  knowing 
nothing  of  pictures  and  French  plays.”  Had  the  measure  of 
health  been  good,  this  ought  to  have  been  a  productive  summer, 
under  such  conditions.  But  alas  !  for  a  weak  body,  when  the 
brain  must  suffer  from  its  debility.  “  Middlemarch  ”  went  on 
with  something  more  of  energy  than  before,  however,  during 
the  summer ;  but  in  the  autumn  there  was  an  illness  of  two 
months.  Only  on  the  first  of  December  was  the  first  part  pub 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


461 

lished,  and  at  that  time  the  fourth  part  had  not  yet  been  com¬ 
pleted.  In  December  there  were  three  weeks  more  of  illness ; 
but  the  favor  with  which  the  first  part  of  “  Middlemarch  ”  was 
received  helped  to  give  her  the  energy  for  going  on  with  her 
work.  At  the  end  of  January  the  fourth  part  was  completed 
and  the  second  published ;  and  in  February  she  wrote :  “  Things 
are  encouraging,  and  the  voices  that  reach  us  are  enthusias¬ 
tic.”  In  May  she  wrote  these  words  in  her  journal:  “The 
reception  of  the  book  hitherto  has  been  quite  beyond  what  I 
could  have  believed  beforehand,  people  exalting  it  above  every¬ 
thing  else  I  have  written.” 

During  the  last  of  May  a  retreat  in  Surrey  was  again  sought 
out,  but  this  time  the  place  of  it  was  not  revealed  to  her 
friends.  To  one  of  them  she  wrote  :  “We  have  been  enjoying 
our  hiding-place  about  twelve  days  now,  and  I  am  enjoying  it 
more  and  more  —  getting  more  bodily  ease  and  mental  clear¬ 
ness  than  I  have  had  for  the  last  six  months.  Our  house  is 
not  in  the  least  beautiful,  but  it  is  well  situated  and  comforta¬ 
ble,  perfectly  still  in  the  midst  of  a  garden  surrounded  by 
fields  and  meadows,  and  yet  within  reach  of  shops  and  civ¬ 
ilization.”  There  were  frequent  visits  to  the  city,  but  the 
country  was  kept  to  throughout  the  summer.  The  days  went 
by  in  delicious  peace,  unbroken  except  by  the  little  inward 
anxieties  of  authorship.  “  Middlemarch  ”  was  completed  in 
August,  and  there  immediately  followed  a  flitting  to  Germany 
for  the  autumn.  They  were  absent  six  weeks,  spending  the 
time  at  Homburg,  Stuttgart,  Augsburg,  and  one  or  two  other 
cities,  returning  home  by  the  way  of  Paris.  On  their  return 
she  wrote  hopeful  words  of  the  health  of  Mr.  Lewes,  and  of 
her  own  added  strength. 

In  December  the  publication  of  “  Middlemarch  ”  was  com¬ 
pleted,  it  having  been  issued  in  monthly  parts.  She  expressed 
in  her  journal  the  deep  satisfaction  which  its  success  gave  her. 
'‘No  former  book  of  mine,”  she  wrote,  “has  been  received  with 
more  enthusiasm  —  not  even  ‘  Adam  Bede  ;  ’  and  I  have  re¬ 
ceived  many  deeply  affecting  assurances  of  its  influence  for 
good  on  individual  minds.  Hardly  anything  could  have  hap¬ 
pened  to  me  which  I  could  regard  as  a  greater  blessing  than 


462 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


the  growth  of  my  spiritual  existence  when  my  bodily  existence 
is  decaying.”  As  she  grew  older  it  took  a  period  of  greater 
and  greater  length  after  the  completion  of  a  book  before  her 
mind  began  to  store  the  treasures  of  another.  The  growing 
power  her  books  brought  her  did  not  increase  the  enthusiasm 
of  creation,  and  she  had  to  wait  for  some  fresh  impulse  to  form 
in  her  mind.  In  the  earlier  years  of  her  authorship  several 
works  were  crowding  upon  her  attention  at  once,  but  now  it 
was  many  months  before  there  is  any  indication  of  new  creative 
activities. 

In  May  there  was  a  visit  to  Cambridge,  at  the  invitation  of 
Frederic  Myers,  and  there  she  greatly  enjoyed  talking  with  a 
number  of  the  University  men.  In  June  there  was  a  visit  to 
Professor  Jowett  at  Oxford.  On  the  23d  of  June  they  set  out 
on  a  nine  weeks’  ramble  in  France  and  Germany.  a  We  were 
both  shattered,”  she  wrote,  “  and  needed  quiet  rather  than  the 
excitement  of  seeing  friends  and  acquaintances  —  an  excitement 
of  which  we  had  been  having  too  much  at  home  —  so  we 
turned  aside  by  easy  stages  to  the  Vosges,  and  spent  about 
three  weeks  at  Plombieres  and  Luxeuil.  We  shall  carry  home 
many  pleasant  memories  of  our  journey  —  of  Fontainebleau,  for 
example,  which  I  had  never  seen  before.  Then  of  the  Vosges, 
where  we  count  on  going  again.  Erckmann-Chatrian’s  books 
had  been  an  introduction  to  the  lovely  region ;  and  several  of 
them  were  our  companions  there.”  On  account  of  the  heat 
they  turned  north  to  Frankfort,  spent  a  week  at  Homburg,  and 
returned  home  by  easy  stages  through  Metz,  Verdun,  Rheims, 
and  Amiens.  They  went  at  once,  on  reaching  England  at  the 
end  of  August,  to  Blackbrook,  in  Surrey. 

They  had  long  been  planning  to  buy  a  country  house,  and 
perhaps  even  permanently  leaving  the  city.  The  house  at 
Blackbrook  soon  proved  not  to  be  suitable  to  their  purpose, 
though  its  tall  trees,  beautiful  lawn,  and  invigorating  air  had 
many  attractions  for  them.  “  I  am  rather  ashamed  of  our 
grumblings,”  she  wrote  to  a  friend  in  October.  “  WTe  are  really 
enjoying  the  country,  and  have  more  than  our  share  of  every¬ 
thing.  George  has  happy  mornings  at  his  desk  now,  and  we 
have  fine  bracing  air  to  walk  in  —  air  which  I  take  in  as  a  sort 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


463 


of  nectar.  We  like  the  bits  of  scenery  about  us  better  and 
better  as  we  get  them  by  heart  in  our  walks  and  drives.  The 
house,  with  all  its  defects,  is  very  pretty,  and  more  delightfully 
secluded,  without  being  remote  from  the  conveniences  of  the 
world,  than  any  place  we  have  before  thought  of  as  a  possible 
residence  for  us.”  With  great  reluctance  she  returned  to  the 
city  in  the  autumn,  because  she  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  coun¬ 
try,  and  because  the  distractions  of  the  city  wore  upon  her 
time  and  her  spirits  alike.  “  In  the  country,”  she  said,  “  the 
days  have  broad  spaces,  and  the  very  stillness  seems  to  give  a 
delightful  roominess  to  the  hours.” 

In  November  there  began  to  be  thoughts  of  a  new  novel,  but 
the  favor  with  which  “  Middlemarch  ”  continued  to  be  received 
made  her  feel  doubtful  of  how  any  other  book  of  hers  might  be 
accepted  by  the  public.  Yet  her  mind  was  only  “  slowly  sim¬ 
mering”  towards  it,  and  the  real  work  of  the  winter  was  the 
preparation  of  the  “  Legend  of  Jubal,  and  other  Poems,”  which 
was  published  in  May.  She  wrote  “A  College  Breakfast 
Party  ”  at  this  time,  but  her  health  throughout  the  winter  was  a 
“  wretched  drag  ”  on  any  literary  efforts  of  a  sustained  kind. 
The  flitting  to  Earlswood  in  May  brought  at  once  more  of  cour¬ 
age  and  a  new  bodily  activity.  She  wrote  in  June  of  the  good 
already  experienced  in  soul  and  body  “  from  the  sweet  breezes 
over  hill  and  common,  the  delicious  silence,  and  the  unbroken 
spaces  of  the  day.”  The  neighborhood  was  so  lovely  they  even 
thought  of  settling  there,  but  the  wide  common  was  very 
breezy,  and  the  wind  made  mournful  music  about  the  walls. 
As  the  summer  went  on  the  winds  were  found  to  be  far  too 
keen,  though  she  could  write  in  June  :  “  I  am  flourishing  now, 
and  am  brewing  my  future  big  book  with  more  or  less  (gener¬ 
ally  less)  belief  in  the  quality  of  the  liquor  which  will  be  drawn 
off.”  October  was  spent  in  visiting  friends  and  in  a  journey 
to  Paris,  after  which  The  Priory  was  returned  to  for  the  win¬ 
ter.  Her  words  written  at  the  end  of  the  year  were  almost  a 
repetition  of  those  of  former  years.  They  expressed  her  sense 
of  thankfulness  for  the  affection  which  had  been  given  her, 
and  her  doubt  of  being  able  to  make  the  work  she  was  engaged 
on  a  fit  contribution  to  literature. 


464 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


In  the  spring  of  1875  a  country  house  was  taken  in  Herts. 
That  region  did  not  prove  favorable  to  her  health,  and  she 
complained  of  its  bad  effects  on  her  to  all  her  correspondents. 

“  Of  me  you  must  expect  no  good/’  she  wrote  to  Mr.  Cross. 
“  I  have  been  in  a  piteous  state  of  debility  in  body  and  depres¬ 
sion  in  mind.  My  book  seems  to  me  so  unlikely  ever  to  be 
finished  in  a  way  that  will  make  it  worth  giving  to  the  world, 
that  it  is  a  kind  of  glass  in  which  I  behold  my  infirmities.” 
The  book  went  on  with  more  of  depression  about  its  success 
than  in  the  case  of  any  other  book  she  had  written  except 
“  Romola.”  It  was  read  with  the  strongest  approval  by  Lewes 
and  Blackwood,  and  this  encouraged  her  to  continue  it  with 
more  of  vigor  and  resolution.  Its  publication  was  begun  in 
February  of  1876,  and  at  once  expressions  of  approval  began  to 
come  to  her.  In  April  she  wrote  in  her  journal :  “The  suc¬ 
cess  of  the  work  at  present  is  greater  than  that  of  ‘  Middle- 
march  ?  up  to  the  corresponding  point  of  publication.  What 
will  be  the  feeling  of  the  public  as  the  story  advances  I  am 
entirely  doubtful.  The  Jewish  element  seems  to  me  likely  to 
satisfy  nobody.  I  am  in  rather  better  health  —  having,  per¬ 
haps,  profited  by  some  eight  days’  change  at  Weybridge.”  Iii 
J une  “  Daniel  Deronda  ”  was  completed,  and  she  mentions 
the  great  amount  of  attention  it  received  from  the  reading 
public.  In  her  journal  and  in  her  letters  she  records  the  ap¬ 
proval  accorded  to  the  book  by  the  Jews,  and  the  condemnation 
with  which  it  was  read  on  the  part  of  many  Christians.  Her 
own  feelings  on  the  subject  are  best  expressed  in  a  letter  to 
Mrs.  H.  B.  Stowe :  “As  to  the  Jewish  element  in  ‘Deronda,’  I 
expected  from  first  to  last,  in  writing  it,  that  it  would  create 
much  stronger  resistance,  and  even  repulsion,  than  it  has 
actually  met  with.  But  precisely  because  I  felt  that  the  usual 
attitude  of  Christians  towards  Jews  is, —  I  hardly  know 
whether  to  say  more  impious  or  more  stupid  when  viewed  in 
the  light  of  their  professed  principles,  — I  therefore  felt  urged 
to  treat  Jews  with  such  sympathy  and  understanding  as  my 
nature  and  knowledge  could  attain  to.  Moreover,  not  only 
towards  the  Jews,  but  towards  all  Oriental  peoples  with  whom 
we  English  come  in  contact,  a  spirit  of  arrogance  and  com 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


465 


fcemptuous  dictatorialness  is  observable  which  has  become  a 
national  disgrace  to  us.  There  is  nothing  I  should  care  more 
to  do,  if  it  were  possible,  than  to  arouse  the  imagination  of 
men  and  women  to  a  vision  of  human  claims  in  those  races  of 
their  fellow-men  who  most  differ  from  them  in  customs  and 
beliefs.  But  towards  the  Hebrews  we  western  people,  who 
have  been  reared  in  Christianity,  have  a  peculiar  debt,  and, 
whether  we  acknowledge  it  or  not,  a  peculiar  thoroughness  of 
fellowship  in  religious  and  moral  sentiment.  Can  anything  be 
more  disgusting  than  to  hear  people  called  ‘  educated  ’  making 
small  jokes  about  eating  ham,  and  showing  themselves  empty 
of  any  real  knowledge  as  to  the  relation  of  their  own  social 
and  religious  life  to  the  history  of  the  people  they  think  them¬ 
selves  witty  in  insulting  ?  They  hardly  know  that  Christ  was 
a  Jew.  And  I  find  men,  educated,  supposing  that  Christ  spoke 
Greek.  To  my  feeling,  this  deadness  to  the  history  which  has 
prepared  half  our  world  for  us,  this  inability  to  find  interest 
in  any  form  of  life  that  is  not  clad  in  the  same  coat-tails  and 
flounces  as  our  own,  lies  very  close  to  the  worst  kind  of  irre- 
ligion.  The  best  that  can  be  said  of  it  is,  that  it  is  a  sign  of 
the  intellectual  narrowness  —  in  plain  English,  the  stupidity 
—  which  is  still  the  average  mark  of  our  culture.” 

The  sale  of  the  book  was  greater  than  in  the  case  of  any  of 
its  predecessors,  and  she  took  the  deepest  satisfaction  in  the 
interest  it  awakened.  It  was  written  from  the  full  force  of 
her  intellectual  and  religious  convictions,  and  with  an  artistic 
purpose  as  lofty  as  was  possible  to  her  creative  genius.  Prob¬ 
ably  no  book  she  wrote  came  more  entirely  out  of  the  best 
blood  of  her  heart  or  with  a  more  sincere  desire  for  the  helping 
of  mankind. 

In  December  a  house  was  bought  in  Surrey,  The  Heights,  at 
Witley,  near  Godaiming,  and  in  March  they  went  to  it  for  the 
summer.  It  stands  on  a  hill  in  the  midst  of  green  fields,  with 
a  dozen  acres  of  pleasure  grounds  immediately  about  it.  It 
afforded  abundant  walks  and  drives,  and  in  the  neighborhood 
were  several  families  to  which  they  were  attached.  In  Novem¬ 
ber,  just  after  returning  to  The  Priory,  she  wrote  :  “  We  are 
in  love  with  our  Surrey  house,  and  only  regret  that  it  hardly 


VOL.  IV. 


466  A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

promises  to  be  snug  enough  for  us  chilly  people  through  the 
winter,  so  that  we  dare  not  think  of  doing  without  the  warmer 
nest  in  town.”  She  returned  to  the  city  with  renewed  health, 
and  with  a  bodily  comfort  not  known  before  in  several  years. 
The  health  of  Mr.  Lewes  was  not  so  good  as  usual,  and  on  the 
return  to  Witley  the  following  spring  it  did  not  recruit.  He 
suffered  severely  through  the  summer,  and  their  life  was  more 
than  in  former  years  one  of  seclusion  and  rest.  Soon  after 
their  return  to  the  city  he  was  taken  alarmingly  ill,  lingered 
for  a  few  days,  and  died  November  28,  1878.  She  took 
great  comfort  in  the  thought  that  “he  never  knew  he  was 
dying,  and  fell  gently  asleep  after  ten  days  of  illness,  in  which 
the  suffering  was  comparatively  mild.”  The  death  of  Lewes 
was  a  great  blow  to  George  Eliot.  She  had  long  trusted  to 
him  completely  for  guidance  in  all  the  practical  matters  of  life, 
and  he  had  been  a  steadfast  support  to  her  in  her  literary 
woik.  She  was  of  a  self-distrusting  nature,  had  great  need  for 
the  sympathy  of  others,  and  had  strength  for  life  only  when 
the  affection  of  those  about  her  was  warm  and  tender.  In  all 
ways  he  was  to  her  a  support,  and  a  most  intimate  companion. 
Their  life  had  been  inseparable  in  their  journeys,  in  the  books 
they  read,  in  the  thoughts  they  entertained,  and  in  the  sympa¬ 
thetic  companionship  of  their  work  as  authors.  Every  page 
of  her  books  was  submitted  to  him  for  approval;  and  she  was 

always  more  zealous  for  the  success  of  his  books  than  for  her 
own. 

She  wrote  in  her  journal  on  the  first  day  of  1879,  “Here  I 
and  sorrow  sit.”  The  grief  was  overwhelming,  and  all  the 
worth  of  life  seemed  to  her  to  be  gone.  She  saw  no  one  but 
Charles  Lewes  for  many  weeks,  except  the  very  few  persons 
she  was  obliged  to  converse  with  on  business.  This  absorbing 
sorrow  soon  began  to  tell  on  her  health ;  but  she  found  some 
recuperation  in  the  thought  of  editing  her  husband’s  books  and 
endowing  a  scholarship  in  his  memory.  This  work  almost  at 
once  began  to  absorb  her  mind,  and  it  grew  more  and  more  to 
be  the  one  thought  of  her  life  during  this  period.  To  one  inti¬ 
mate  friend  she  wrote :  “lama  bruised  creature,  and  shrink 
even  from  the  tenderest  touch.”  To  another  she  wrote  of  the 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


46’ 


sorrow  which  had  broken  her  life,  and  to  yet  another  that  her 
everlasting  winter  had  set  in.  She  did  not  go  outside  the  gate 
of  her  own  house,  and  she  “  could  not  bear  to  go  out  of  sight 
of  the  things  he  used  and  looked  on.”  At  the  beginning  of 
February  she  was  entirely  occupied  with  his  manuscripts,  and 
unable  to  contemplate  the  thought  of  going  away  from  the 
immediate  presence  and  help  of  his  books.  “  I  want  to  live  a 
little  time,”  she  wrote  to  Mr.  Cross,  “  that  I  may  do  certain 
things  for  his  sake.  So  I  try  to  keep  up  my  strength,  and  I 
work  as  much  as  I  can  to  keep  my  mind  from  imbecility.  But 
that  is  all  at  present.  I  can  go  through  anything  that  is  mere 
business.  But  what  used  to  be  joy  is  joy  no  longer,  and  what 
is  pain  is  easier  because  he  has  not  to  bear  it.” 

In  March  she  saw  Henry  Sidgwick  and  others  in  regard  tc 
founding  a  scholarship  to  the  memory  of  her  husband,  which 
purpose  was  soon  carried  out.  The  scholarship  is  open  to 
either  sex,  to  students  anywhere  in  England,  and  is  for  origi¬ 
nal  investigation  in  physiology.  She  took  much  delight  in 
this  project,  and  was  greatly  rejoiced  when  a  competent  young 
man  was  found  who  needed  the  aid  it  offered.  The  other  pur¬ 
pose,  of  editing  her  husband’s  books,  also  went  steadily  on, 
with  the  aid  of  his  scientific  friends  :  and  she  gave  to  the 
world  all  of  his  work  that  he  had  in  any  degree  completed 
before  his  death. 

During  his  last  illness,  on  one  of  the  days  when  his  health 
seemed  to  be  improving,  Lewes  sent  to  Blackwood  a  new  vol¬ 
ume  by  George  Eliot.  The  death  of  her  husband,  for  the  time 
being,  took  from  her  all  interest  in  its  publication,  and  she 
refused  to  have  it  appear  at  once.  “  To  me,  now,  the  writing 
seems  all  trivial  stuff ;  ”  and  three  months  after  her  husband’s 
death  she  wrote :  <c  It  would  be  intolerable  to  my  feelings  to 
have  a  book  of  my  writing  brought  out  for  a  long  time  to 
come.”  Gradually  she  entered  upon  the  task  of  correcting 
the  proof-sheets  ;  but  she  was  anxious  it  should  be  announced 
that  the  book  was  written  before  his  death.  Her  scruples 
were  so  far  overcome  that  “  Theophrastus  Such  ”  was  published 
in  Mav.  In  March  she  had  felt  so  dissatisfied  with  it  as  to  pro 
pose  to  wholly  rewrite  it  at  her  leisure ;  but  the  assurances  01 


468 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Blackwood  as  to  its  merit  finally  persuaded  her  to  retreat 
from  this  purpose.  The  warm  reception  it  met  with  from  the 
public  surprised  her,  and  it  gave  her  a  little  fresh  hold  upon  the 
interests  of  life.  She  wrote  to  her  publisher  that  it  was  really 
welcomed  by  the  public ;  and  she  expressed  the  opinion  that 
it  was  not  composed  of  chips  any  more  than  her  other  books. 
In  April  she  began  to  see  her  friends  again,  and  her  corre¬ 
spondence  with  her  old  friends  was  all  renewed.  On  the  22d 
she  went  to  Witley,  on  a  “  lovely  mild  day;”  but  her  health 
grew  worse  rather  than  better.  During  June  and  July  she 
suffered  much  pain,  and  was  seldom  able  to  get  out  of  the 
house,  being  almost  confined  to  her  bed  for  much  of  the  time.  In 
the  autumn  her  health  greatly  improved,  and  towards  the  end 
of  November  she  wrote  to  Sara  Hennell:  “I  am  quite  recov¬ 
ered  from  the  ailment  which  made  me  good  for  little  in  the 
summer,  and  indeed  am  stronger  than  I  ever  expected  to  be 
again.  People  are  very  good  to  me,  and  I  am  exceptionally 
blessed  in  many  ways;  but  more  blessed  are  the  dead  who 
rest  from  their  labors,  and  have  not  to  dread  a  barren,  useless 
survival.”  She  slowly  resumed  the  old  habits  of  her  life; 
but  the  deep  sorrow  remained. 

After  the  death  of  her  husband,  the  friend  she  most  fully 
trusted  was  John  Walter  Cross.  He  offered  her  his  sympathy 
and  help,  they  studied  Italian  together,  read  their  favorite 
authors  to  each  other,  and  went  occasionally  to  concerts  dur¬ 
ing  the  winter.  In  the  spring  their  marriage  was  decided  on, 
but  after  much  hesitation  on  her  part.  She  had  known  him 
for  many  years,  and  had  found  in  him  a  valuable  friend.  They 
first  met  in  Italy,  and  the  families  had  gradually  been  drawn 
into  intimate  friendship.  They  lived  in  the  same  neighbor¬ 
hood  in  Surrey,  and  there  was  much  of  visiting  between  them. 
He  was  twenty  years  younger  than  she,  but  that  made  his 
affection  and  tenderness  all  the  more  delightful  to  her.  She 
needed  some  one  to  lean  on,  to  confide  in,  and  to  give  her 
courage  in  the  struggle  of  life.  The  admiration  and  devotion 
of  a  young  man  were  not  to  have  been  expected,  and  all  the 
more  helpful  were  they  when  they  came.  Soon  after  their 
engagement  she  wrote  to  his  sister :  “  Without  your  tenderness 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


46S 


I  do  not  believe  it  would  have  been  possible  for  me  to  accept 
this  wonderful  renewal  of  my  life.  Nothing  less  than  the 
prospect  of  being  loved  and  welcomed  by  you  all  could  have 
sustained  me.  But  now  I  cherish  the  thought  that  the  fam¬ 
ily  life  will  be  the  richer,  and  not  the  poorer,  through  your 
brother’s  great  gift  of  love  to  me.  Yet  I  quail  a  little  in  facing 
what  has  to  be  gone  through  —  the  hurting  of  many  whom  I 
care  for  You  are  doing  everything  you  can  to  help  me,  and 
I  am  full  of  gratitude  to  you  all  for  his  sake  as  well  as  my 
own.  The  springs  of  affection  are  reopened  in  me,  and  it  will 
make  me  better  to  be  among  you  —  more  loving  and  trusting.” 
To  Charles  Lewes  she  wrote  after  the  marriage  had  taken 
place,  and  with  confidence  in  his  approval  of  the  step  she  had 
taken :  “  Marriage  has  seemed  to  restore  me  to  my  old  self.  I 
was  getting  hard,  and  if  I  had  decided  differently,  I  should 
have  become  very  selfish.”  To  this  may  be  added  the  words 
sent  to  one  of  her  most  intimate  and  oldest  friends:  aHis 
family  welcome  me  with  the  utmost  tenderness.  All  this  is 
wonderful  blessing  falling  to  me  beyond  my  share,  after  I  had 
thought  that  my  life  was  ended,  and  that,  so  to  speak,  my 
coffin  was  ready  for  me  in  the  next  room.  Deep  down  below 
there  is  a  hidden  river  of  sadness,  but  this  must  always  be 
with  those  who  have  lived  long  —  and  I  am  able  to  enjoy  my 
newly  reopened  life.  I  shall  be  a  better,  more  loving  creature 
than  I  could  have  been  in  solitude.  To  be  constantly,  lovingly 
grateful  for  the  gift  of  a  perfect  love  is  the  best  illumination 
of  one’s  mind  to  all  the  possible  good  there  may  be  in  store 
for  man  on  this  troublous  little  planet.” 

There  need  be  no  other  explanation  of  her  marriage  than  is 
contained  in  these  words  of  her  own.  She  was  very  sad  and 
lonely,  and  a  young  man  found  her  a  delightful  companion, 
and  chose  to  devote  his  life  to  her.  Needing  affection  and 
sympathy,  she  accepted  his  love,  and  found  new  life  and  hope 
in  it.  Her  last  days  were  brightened  by  this  experience,  and 
the  few  more  months  of  life  were  made  as  happy  as  was  pos¬ 
sible.  Whether  she  should  accept  the  proffered  affection,  or 
keep  wholly  true  to  the  old  love,  it  was  hers  to  decide.  No 
theory  of  ideal  love  can  determine  such  a  case  of  personal  ex* 


470 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


perience.  She  believed  it  was  better  for  her  to  take  the  fresh 
devotion  and  affection  given  her  than  to  grow  hard  and  selfish 
in  her  loneliness ;  and  the  verdict  to  be  rendered  concerned 
her  alone. 

They  were  married  May  6,  1880,  in  St.  George’s  Church, 
Hanover  Square,  in  the  presence  of  his  family  and  one  or  two 
friends.  She  was  given  away  by  Charles  Lewes.  They  at 
once  crossed  over  to  France,  and  passed  thence,  after  visiting 
one  or  two  places,  to  Italy.  Her  health  immediately  improved 
on  reaching  the  Continent,  and  she  was  able  to  enjoy  the 
walking  and  sight-seeing  with  much  of  delight.  They  went 
to  Milan,  Verona,  Padua,  and  Venice.  In  the  last  city  Mr. 
Cross  was  taken  ill  from  the  effects  of  the  hot  weather  and  the 
bad  air,  and  as  soon  as  he  recovered  they  turned  northwards. 
Some  days  were  spent  at  Innspruck,  Munich,  Wildbad,  and  in 
other  German  cities.  They  reached  Witley  again  on  the  26th 
of  July,  and  a  few  days  later  she  wrote:  “ I  have  been  amaz¬ 
ingly  well  through  all  the  exertion  of  our  travels,  and  in  the 
latter  half  of  the  time  have  done  a  great  deal  of  walking.”  In 
the  autumn  there  were  visits  to  his  relatives,  and  a  return  of 
the  old  disorder.  Quite  in  the  spirit  of  the  old  days,  she  wrote 
of  the  state  of  her  health,  and  of  her  thankfulness  for  the 
affection  that  was  being  given  to  her :  “  I  have  been  much 
more  ill,  and  have  only,  during  the  last  few  days,  begun  to 
feel  myself  recovering  strength.  But  I  have  been  cared  for 
with  something  much  better  than  angelic  tenderness.  The 
fine,  clear  air,  if  it  lasts,  will  induce  us  to  linger  in  the  coun¬ 
try  ;  and,  indeed,  I  am  not  yet  quite  fit  to  move ;  for,  though  I 
appear  to  be  quite  cured  of  my  main  ailment,  half  my  bodily 
self  has  vanished.  We  are  having  deliciously  clear  days  here, 
and  I  get  out  for  short  drives  and  walks.”  To  Mrs.  Bray  she 
wrote  of  the  “  miraculous  affection  which  had  chosen  to  watch 
over”  her. 

On  the  3d  of  December  they  moved  to  Cheyne  Walk,  Chel¬ 
sea,  to  a  house  which  Mr.  Cross  had  taken  there.  They  waited 
in  the  country  that  it  might  be  put  in  order  for  them,  and  that 
her  books  and  furniture  might  be  removed.  She  wrote  to  one 
friend  of  the  cares  of  the  house,  and  had.  visits  from  one  or 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


471 


two  of  her  friends.  The  old  habits  of  reading  in  the  company 
of  her  husband  were  resumed,  and  the  authors  were  Max 
Muller,  Goethe,  Tennyson,  Cervantes,  and  Myers’s  “Words¬ 
worth.”  On  the  17th  of  December,  she  went  to  hear  the 
u  Agamemnon  ”  presented  by  the  under-graduates  of  Oxford, 
and  the  next  day  she  attended  a  popular  concert  at  St.  James’s 
Hall.  The  room  was  very  warm,  and  she  caught  a  cold.  That 
evening  she  played  on  the  piano  with  her  usual  skill  and  spirit. 
On  Sunday  her  throat  was  slightly  troubled,  but  there  was  a 
pleasant  call  from  Herbert  Spencer,  and  from  others.  In  the 
afternoon  she  began  a  letter,  which  was  left  unfinished  on  her 
desk.  On  Monday  she  was  worse,  and  by  Wednesday  it  was 
found  that  she  was  most  seriously  ill.  In  the  evening  of  the 
latter  day,  as  the  physicians  were  by  her  bedside,  she  whis¬ 
pered  to  her  husband,  “  Tell  them  I  have  great  pain  in  the 
left  side.”  She  soon  became  unconscious,  and  passed  away  in 
that  state,  in  the  evening  of  December  22,  1880.  She  was 
buried  on  the  29th  in  Highgate  Cemetery,  in  the  midst  of  a 
bitter  storm  of  sleet  and  snow,  a  service  being  read  over  her 
grave  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Sadler. 

Shortly  before  her  death  George  Eliot  had  selected  and 
revised  such  of  her  “  Westminister  Review  ”  articles  as  she 
cared  to  have  rescued  from  oblivion;  and  she  gave  stiict  in¬ 
junctions  that  no  others  should  be  republished.  In  1884  these 
essays,  with  a  few  miscellaneous  notes  on  a  variety  of  topics, 
were  published  under  the  editorial  supervision  of  Charles 
Lewes.  In  1885  her  letters,  arranged  in  the  form  of  a  biog¬ 
raphy,  were  published  by  Mr.  Cross.  He  showed  great  skill 
and  modesty  in  doing  his  work,  making  one  of  the  best  of 
biographies.  In  preparing  it,  however,  he  used  his  materials 
to  suit  his  own  ideas  of  what  should  be  given  to  the  world, 
and  no  one  of  her  letters  appears  in  its  entirety.  This  leaves 
something  of  doubt  about  what  she  did  actually  say  and  write 
on  many  important  occasions.  The  very  parts  omitted  might 
have  given  a  quite  different  view  of  her  life,  and  her  habits  of 
thought,  had  they  been  retained.  The  “  Life  ”  is  also  singu¬ 
larly  silent  about  some  of  the  most  critical  passages  in  George 
Eliot’s  life,  especially  concerning  her  relations  to  Mr.  Lewes. 


472 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Her  letters  indicate  how  deep  was  her  affection  for  him  ;  but 
they  do  not  give  any  real  explanation  of  the  fact  of  her  living 
with  him  for  many  years  without  a  legal  marriage. 

The  biography  prepared  by  Mr.  Cross  makes  it  very  certain 
that  George  Eliot  was  herself  greater  than  any  of  her  books. 
It  was  a  full  and  deep  life  she  lived,  in  warm  sympathy  with 
the  largest  thought  of  her  time,  and  in  intimate  fellowship 
with  the  leading  scientific  and  literary  minds  among  her  con¬ 
temporaries.  More  fully  than  any  other  author  of  her  day  she 
reflected  the  scientific  spirit  of  the  latter  half  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  She  was  singularly  devoid  of  prejudices,  and  was  of 
a  wide-minded  and  tolerant  spirit,  and  eager  to  do  what  good 
she  could  for  her  fellows.  A  radical  of  the  most  pronounced 
type  in  some  of  her  opinions,  her  sympathies  were  conserva¬ 
tive,  and  there  was  nothing  iconoclastic  about  her.  Her  mind 
was  large  and  catholic  in  all  its  tendencies.  She  had  much  of 
affection  and  sympathy  also,  and  thoroughly  felt  that  the  life 
of  the  affections  is  man’s  greatest  heritage. 

The  trait  in  her  character  which  must  first  of  all  demand 
attention  as  explanatory  of  her  life  was  her  self-distrust. 
The  sorrow  of  her  youth,  and  her  slowness  of  development 
as  an  author,  are  to  be  accounted  for  by  this  fact.  She  had 
nothing  of  that  self-reliance  which  Emerson  preached  so  earn¬ 
estly  as  the  chief  worth  of  life.  She  shrank  from  all  thrusting 
forward  of  her  own  powers,  and  she  does  not  seem  to  have 
realized  her  genius  until  it  was  found  out  by  others.  The 
ambition  of  mental  power  she  had  in  youth,  and  the  inward 
burning  purpose  to  make  herself  known  to  the  world,  but  her 
modesty  and  her  fear  kept  her  long  in  waiting  before  she 
found  her  true  work.  The  sadness  which  has  been  so  often 
complained  of  in  her  books  was  of  the  same  kind,  and  grew 
out  of  the  same  roots  of  constitutional  depression  and  want  of 
faith.  She  saw  the  sad  side  of  life  and  felt  the  agony  it 
brings  upon  the  heart,  not  out  of  any  deliberate  intellectual 
purpose,  but  because  of  her  self-distrust  and  her  natural  sad¬ 
ness  of  disposition.  She  had  a  strong  mind,  and  one  of  great 
intellectual  capacities  j  but  she  had  a  woman’s  tenderness  and 
craving  for  affection.  However  great  her  sympathy  with  the 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT, 


473 


ieaders  of  scientific  opinion,  she  was  a  being  of  feeling,  and 
cared  more  for  those  spiritual  affinities  which  relate  soul  to 
soul  than  for  aught  else  she  found  in  her  study  of  human  life. 

The  element  of  self-distrust  in  her  life  expressed  itself  in 
her  constant  fear  of  what  might  be  said  about  her  by  the 
critics.  It  was  not  that  she  dreaded  any  truth  spoken  of  her, 
but  the  general  tendency  of  reading  criticisms  on  her  works 
was  to  cause  depression  of  mind  and  discouragement  about  her 
writing.  For  this  reason  she  seldom  read  anything  that  was 
said  about  her  books,  Mr.  Lewes  reading  the  reviews  for  her ; 
and  he  showed  her  only  those  which  were  likely  to  give  her 
encouragement  by  their  wise  appreciation.  He  also  conducted 
most  of  her  business  correspondence,  and  all  of  it  which  it 
was  in  his  power  to  manage  for  her. 

In  a  note  to  Sara  Hennell,  written  in  1872,  she  said :  “  Mr. 
Lewes  makes  a  martyr  of  himself  in  writing  all  my  notes  and 
business  letters.  Is  not  that  being  a  sublime  husband  ?  For 
all  the  while  there  are  studies  of  his  own  being  put  aside  — 
studies  which  are  a  seventh  heaven  to  him.”  At  the  very 
beginning  of  her  career  as  a  novelist  she  gave  expression  to 
her  dislike  of  criticism,  and  this  feeling  grew  rather  than 
lessened.  “It  is  a  wretched  weakness  of  my  nature,”  she 
wrote  to  Blackwood,  “to  be  so  strongly  affected  by  these 
things ;  and  yet  how  is  it  possible  to  put  one’s  best  heart  and 
soul  into  a  book  and  be  hardened  to  the  result  —  be  indiffer¬ 
ent  to  the  proof  whether  or  not  one  has  really  a  vocation  to 
speak  to  one’s  fellow-men  in  that  way  ?  Of  course  one’s 
vanity  is  at  work ;  but  the  main  anxiety  is  something  entirely 
distinct  from  vanity.”  It  was  not  true  criticism,  however, 
which  she  disliked,  but  the  gossip  and  noise  of  men  who  did 
not  choose  to  understand  a  book  before  writing  about  it. 
Those  who  could  point  out  errors  or  help  her  to  make  her 
books  more  correct  and  truthful  in  any  particular  she  always 
welcomed. 

With  all  her  self-distrust  and  her  dislike  of  contact  with  the 
business  part  of  the  making  of  books,  she  had  a  sharp  eye  to 
the  manner  in  which  her  books  were  published.  She  was 
anxious  that  they  should  be  given  to  the  public  in  the  best 


474 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

manner;  but  she  never  coveted  the  making  of  money  from 
them,  merely  for  the  sake  of  money.  What  is  more  interest- 
ing  about  her  writing,  however,  is  the  fact  that  she  felt  that 
she  wrote  under  the  impulse  of  a  controlling  feeling  which 
guided  her  to  what  it  was  best  to  say.  Her  best  writing  was 
done  at  a  fever  heat,  without  any  special  prearrangement  of 
what  should  be  said,  and  she  seldom  rewrote  to  any  great  ex¬ 
tent  “She  told  me,”  says  Mr.  Cross,  “that,  in  all  that  she 
considered  her  best  writing,  there  was  a  ‘  not  herself  ’  which 
took  possession  of  her,  and  that  she  felt  her  own  personality 
to  be  merely  the  instrument  through  which  this  spirit,  as  it 
were,  was  acting.  Particularly  she  dwelt  on  this  in  regard  to 
the  scene  in  ‘Middlemarch ’  between  Dorothea  and  Rosamond, 
saying  that  although  she  always  knew  they  had,  sooner  or  later, 
to  come  together,  she  kept  the  idea  resolutely  out  of  her  mind 
until  Dorothea  was  in  Rosamond’s  drawing-room.  Then, 
abandoning  herself  to  the  inspiration  of  the  moment,  she 
wrote  the  whole  scene  exactly  as  it  stands,  without  alteration 
or  erasure,  m  an  intense  state  of  excitement  and  agitation, 
feeling  herself  entirely  possessed  by  the  feelings  of  the  two 
women  ”  She  did  not  accept  the  idea  of  « inspiration,”  in  the 
religious  sense,  for  she  had  no  belief  whatever  in  any  objective 
influence  as  affecting  her  thoughts.  It  was  but  another  illus- 
tratmn  of  her  reliance  on  feeling  as  a  true  guide  in  life,  that 
she  should  have  abandoned  herself  to  her  emotions  in  her 

writing,  and  trusted  to  them  to  guide  her  to  what  it  was  best 
to  say. 

In  preparing  for  her  writing,  she  began  with  those  elements 
of  character  which  she  wished  to  represent,  and  then  invented 
such  a  story  and  such  characters  as  would  develop  these  moods 
and  passions.  She  said  to  Mr.  John  Morley,  in  1877,  as  he 
states  her  words  :  “She  was  speaking  of  the  different  methods 
ot  the  poetic  or  creative  art,  and  said  that  she  began  with 
moods,  thoughts,  passions,  and  then  invented  the  story  for 
“  eir  sake,  and  fitted  it  to  them ;  Shakespeare,  on  the  other 
hand,  picked  up  a  story  that  struck  him,  and  then  proceeded 
to  work  in  the  moods,  thoughts,  passions,  as  they  came  to  him 
in  the  course  of  meditation  on  the  story.”  It  was  this  method 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


475 

of  working,  by  first  becoming  possessed  with  the  passions  she 
wished  to  delineate,  which  gave  her  the  inspiration  of  which 
Mr.  Cross  speaks.  That  method  roused  every  faculty  of  her 
mind,  and  concentrated  the  creative  functions  on  one  purpose. 

Her  face  was  one  of  marked  power,  not  beautiful,  but  mas¬ 
sive  and  strong.  Her  nose  was  large,  her  mouth  expressive, 
her  hair  black,  and  her  eyes  keen  with  intellectual  light.  Her 
features  were  too  massive  to  be  suggestive  of  beauty,  but  they 
gave  the  impression  of  a  great  life  shining  through  them. 
Her  brows  gave  the  hint  of  large  intellectual  powers,  and  her 
smile  was  one  of  rare  beauty  and  expressiveness.  She  enjoyed 
laughter,  and  the  good  things  which  were  said  by  others.  Her 
mind  did  not  move  actively  enough  or  with  that  alertness  of 
power  which  is  necessary  for  general  conversation ;  but  in  the 
company  of  two  or  three  congenial  minds  she  could  talk  with 
great  effectiveness.  She  had  the  greatest  enjoyment  of  music, 
poetry,  and  all  the  arts.  If  her  mind  was  intellectual  in  its 
cast,  it  was  also  artistic  in  its  movement.  She  delighted  in 
beauty  of  whatever  kind,  and  eagerly  studied  it  in  all  its 
phases.  There  was  a  woman’s  anxiety,  however,  for  what  is 
pure  and  wholesome.  Ho  word  of  hers  was  ever  written  with 
a  lowered  sense  of  moral  obligation,  but  always  she  kept 
strong  within  her  the  desire  to  give  life  whatever  of  moral 
worth  was  possible  through  her  writings.  She  would  have 
preferred  not  to  write  at  all  to  writing  what  would  be  un¬ 
wholesome  to  the  moral  life  of  mankind.  Among  the  great 
literary  creators  in  prose  she  stands  among  the  foremost  in 
the  ethical  intent  of  her  writings,  and  in  the  profound  convic¬ 
tion  she  had  of  the  moral  worth  of  life.  Her  theories  may 
have  been  false,  but  her  moral  aim  wa.s  always  of  the  highest. 
She  was  surprised  and  hurt  to  learn  that  those  who  read  her 
books  found  them  sad  and  depressing ;  for,  above  all  things, 
she  desired  that  they  should  give  courage  and  moral  purpose 
to  the  world. 

In  her  life,  besides  its  modesty  and  its  shrinking  from  the 
world,  there  was  something  of  self  willed  determination  and 
a  great  loyalty  of  purpose.  On  more  than  one  occasion  she 
showed  a  purpose  to  defy  conventionality,  and  to  act  from 


476  A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

motives  of  her  own.  This  seems  not  to  be  in  harmony  with 
the  other  cnaracteristics  of  her  life ;  but  it  stands  there  as  a 
marked  indication  of  how  the  shrinking  wom?,n  could  act  for 
herself  when  it  was  necessary.  She  was  no  revolutionist  in 
feeling  or  in  thought,  but  her  mind  was  too  large  always  to 
be  satisfied  with  conventional  reasons.  A  little  of  hardness 
under  adverse  conditions,  and  a  capacity  for  defiance  to  what 
is  unjust,  appear  now  and  then  in  her  character,  and  show 
that  she  was  capable  of  something  else  than  affection.  The 
stern  sense  of  justice  she  had,  however,  in  a  remarkable 
degree ;  and  that  kept  her  from  acting  out  the  harsher  side  of 
her  nature.  She  had  a  keen, sense  of  what  is  just  and  right 
and  for  that  she  always  sought.  At  the  same  time  her  nature 
was  capable  of  great  tenderness  and  affection.  She  drew 
others  to  her  in  the  warmest  confidences,  and  she  had  a  rich 
capacity  for  helping  and  consoling  others.  Her  letters  of 
condolence  to  her  friends  in  cases  of  sorrow  are  of  the  most 
sympathetic  nature,  and  full  of  the  deep  riches  of  her  affection. 
She  made  many  friends,  and  she  held  them  warmly  to  her 
through  the  most  trying  circumstances.  They  believed  in 
her,  whatever  they  may  have  thought  of  her  conduct.  There 
was  no  disloyalty  in  her  nature  to  the  personal  springs  of 
moral  conduct ;  and  she  was  equally  loyal  to  the  ties  and 
obligations  of  personal  friendship  and  fidelity.  She  shrank 
always  from  that  inadequate  expression  of  thought  and  feel¬ 
ing  which  accompanies  intercourse  by  the  means  of  letters ; 
and  she  longed  for  that  face-to-face  confidence  which  makes 
one’s  life  really  known  to  others. 

Her  letters  are  full  of  interest,  and  are  remarkable  indica¬ 
tions  of  her  literary  power  and  the  wide  range  of  her  intel¬ 
lectual  sympathies.  It  was  not  her  custom  to  write  on  high 
themes  in  her  letters ;  but  some  of  the  best  expressions  of  her 
thought  are  contained  in  them.  In  answer  to  her  correspon¬ 
dents  she  would  sometimes  open  her  mind  on  philosophical 
and  religious  topics,  and  these  indications  of  the  direction  of 
her  thought  are  remarkable  for  their  keenness  of  intellectual 
insight  and  their  breadth  of  spirit.  Her  interest  in  her  friends 
was  always  warm  and,  sympathetic,  and  she  was  constantly 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


477 


anxious  for  news  of  them.  She  never  descended  to  gossip  or 
to  the  trivial  matters  of  letter-writing ;  but  there  was  a  fresh 
interest  always  manifest  in  the  affairs  of  her  friends.  She 
was  not  a  great  letter- writer,  for  the  activities  of  her  mind 
found  expression  in  other  directions.  She  did  not  enjoy  writ¬ 
ing  letters,  and  her  whole  soul  never  went  into  them. 

The  circle  of  her  friends  was  a  large  one,  in  view  of  the 
fact  of  her  being  debarred  from  society.  She  retained  through 
life  many  of  the  intimate  friends  of  her  youth,  and  she  gained 
others  by  the  charm  of  her  intercourse  and  by  the  influence  of 
her  books.  Not  going  into  society  or  making  visits  her  friends 
were  those  only  who  were  firmly  attached  to  her,  and  who 
valued  her  for  her  own  sake.  To  a  large  extent  her  friends 
were  among  the  literary  and  scientific  leaders  of  the  day,  who 
found  in  her  a  congenial  intellectual  companion.  Her  atti¬ 
tude  towards  her  contemporaries  was  always  generous  and 
appreciative.  Now  and  then,  only,  did  she  have  a  sharp  word 
to  say  about  any  of  the  men  and  women  who  were  attracting 
public  attention  by  their  literary  or  scientific  work.  When 
she  read  “  Aurora  Leigh,”  she  wrote  of  it  to  Sara  Hennell 
with  words  of  the  warmest  praise,  having  read  it  for  the  third 
time  and  with  more  delight  than  ever  :  “  I  know  no  book  that 
gives  me  a  deeper  sense  of  communion  with  a  large  as  well  as 
beautiful  mind.”  Later  on  she  notes  in  her  journal  that  she 
had  read  “Casa  Guidi  Windows  ”  with  great  delight,  and  had 
found  in  it,  among  other  admirable  things,  a  very  noble  ex¬ 
pression  of  what  she  believed  to  be  the  true  relation  of  the 
religious  mind  to  the  past.  She  met  Renan  on  one  or  two 
occasions,  and  she  was  much  attracted  by  him  as  a  thinker  and 
as  an  interpreter  of  the  religious  life  of  the  past.  In  1863 
she  wrote  of  him :  “  Renan  is  a  favorite  with  me.  I  feel  more 
kinship  with  his  mind  than  with  that  of  any  other  living 
French  author.”  With  his  “  Life  of  Jesus”  she  was  not  at 
all  fascinated,  but  thought  it  too  much  a  piece  of  romantic 
reconstruction  of  what  was  plain  enough  in  itself.  She  men¬ 
tions  Iluskin  several  times  in  her  letters  with  admiration,  and 
she  read  his  books  with  delight.  “I  venerate  him,”  she 
*rote  in  1858,  “  as  one  of  the  great  teachers  of  the  day.  The 


478  A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

grand  doctrines  of  truth  and  sincerity  in  art,  and  the  nobleness 
and  solemnity  of  our  human  life,  which  he  teaches  with  the 
inspiration  of  a  Hebrew  prophet,  must  be  stirring  up  young 
minds  in  a  promising  way.  The  last  two  volumes  of  ‘  Modern 
Painters  ’  contain,  I  think,  some  of  the  finest  writing  of  the 
age.  He  is  strongly  akin  to  the  sublimest  part  of  Words¬ 
worth  —  whom,  by  the  bye,  we  are  reading  with  fresh  admira¬ 
tion  for  his  beauty  and  tolerance  for  his  faults.”  Her  personal 
intercourse  with  Tennyson  was  very  pleasant.  She  expressed 
the  opinion  that  u  some  smaller  wholes  among  the  lyrics  ”  are 
those  parts  of  his  work  which  are  decisive  of  his  “  high  place 
among  the  immortals”  “ Then,  again,  I  think  Tennyson’s 
dramas  such  as  the  world  should  be  glad  of  —  and  would  be, 
if  there  had  been  no  prejudgment  that  he  could  not  write  a 
drama.”  These  words  of  sympathetic  approval  could  be  mul¬ 
tiplied  from  her  letters,  but  they  are  sufficient  to  indicate  her 
general  attitude  of  mind  towards  those  working  about  her. 
She  had  nothing  of  jealousy  in  her  nature,  and  was  always 
rejoiced  to  find  that  which  is  good  in  others. 

For  work  that  is  not  sound  and  just  she  had  a  great  dislike. 
All  literary  presumption  was  opposed  to  the  bent  of  her  mind, 
and  could  not  win  her  approval.  Buckle  was  one  of  the  very 
few  authors  for  whom  she  had  no  liking,  and  she  said  of  him 
to  a  friend  :  “  He  is  a  writer  who  inspires  me  with  a  personal 
dislike  ;  not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  on  it,  he  impresses  me  as 
an  irreligious,  conceited  man.”  The  air  of  pretension  about 
Buckle  and  his  work  led  to  her  dislike  of  him  and  his  theories. 
He  was  wanting  in  reverence,  and  he  was  a  strong  radical. 
She  had  little  sympathy  with  freethinkers  of  any  kind,  and 
was  not  inclined  to  accept  patiently  the  teachings  of  those 
who  would  merely  overthrow  the  ideals  of  men  of  whatever 
kind.  At  the  same  time  she  had  no  love  for  any  author  or 
artist  whose  moral  purpose  was  not  thoroughly  sound  and 
healthy.  This  made  her  say  that  she  was  utterly  out  of  sym¬ 
pathy  with  the  poetry  of  Byron.  u  He  seems  to  me,”  was  her 
verdict,  “  the  most  vulgar-minded  genius  that  ever  produced  a 
great  effect  in  literature.”  This  opinion  was  doubtless  occa¬ 
sioned  in  some  degree  by  a  want  of  literary  appreciation  of 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT 


47S 


Byron’s  poetry ;  but  it  marks  her  high  sense  of  the  moral  aim 
as  essential  to  any  genuine  literary  work.  In  all  her  letter^ 
as  well  as  throughout  her  books,  this  moral  purpose  is  pre¬ 
dominant.  She  measured  every  author  by  his  moral  power 
and  the  wholesomeness  of  his  moral  teaching.  It  is  perhaps 
unjust  to  judge  an  author  entirely  from  this  basis,  regardless 
of  his  artistic  powers  ;  but  the  moral  quality  is  one  that,  more 
than  any  other,  tells  us  what  the  man  was,  and.  what  is  likely 
to  be  the  effect  of  his  work  upon  the  world.  In  this  critical 
judgment  we  see  the  deep-wrought  nature  of  the  moral  im¬ 
pulse  as  it  existed  in  George  Eliot,  and  how  thoroughly  at 
heart  her  moral  purpose  was  sound  and  healthy.  The  moral 
effect  of  her  books  is  of  the  very  best,  as  she  is  ever  on  the 
side  of  right  conduct  and  purity  of  heart. 

She  had  no  sympathy  whatever  with  that  conception  of  life 
which  permits  the  individual  to  become  his  own  guide  and 
law,  regardless  of  the  welfare  of  others.  She  had  no  desire 
to  take  sanctuary  under  the  plea  of  genius,  in  any  selfishness 
or  in  any  narrow  culture  of  one’s  self.  To  a  friend  she  wrote 
these  emphatic  words  concerning  this  form  of  individualism  : 
“  The  teaching  you  quote  as  George  Sand’s  would,  I  think, 
deservo  to  be  called  nonsensical  if  it  did  not  deserve  to  be 
called  wicked.  What  sort  of  1  culture  of  the  intellect  ’  is  that 
which,  instead  of  widening  the  mind  to  a  fuller  and  fuller 
response  to  all  the  elements  of  our  existence,  isolates  it  in  a 
moral  stupidity  ?  —  which  flatters  egoism  with  the  possibility 
that  a  complex  and  refined  human  society  can  continue,  where, 
in  relations  have  no  sacredness  beyond  the  inclination  ot 
changing  moods  ?  —  or  figures  to  itself  an  aesthetic  human 
life  that  one  may  compare  to  that  of  the  fabled  grasshoppers 
who  were  once  men,  but  having  heard  the  song  or  the  Muses 
could  do  nothing  but  sing,  and  starved  themselves  so  till  they 
died  and  had  a  fit  resurrection  as  grasshoppers.”  She  asked 
no  favor  for  herself  as  an  author  which  ',he  did  not  think 
ought  to  be  given  to  every  worker.  There  was  little  of  the 
egotism  of  genius  in  her  nature;  at  least,  none  of  that  egotism 
which  supposes  that  genius  should  be  granted  privileges  not 
given  to  hard  work.  To  her,  th*>  measure  of  what  one  is  to 


480  A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

receive  of  the  world  is  the  measure  of  what  one  does  for 

mankind. 

The  moral  bent  of  her  mind  was  not  more  conspicuous  than 
her  conservatism.  Her  association  with  the  leaders  of  scien¬ 
tific  thought,  her  sympathy  with  the  teachings  of  Comte,  and 
her  setting  aside  of  conventional  standards  in  regard  to  her 
first  marriage,  have  led  to  the  belief  that  she  was  a  radical  of 
the  most  pronounced  type.  Such,  however,  was  not  the  case ; 
and  she  was,  in  reality,  a  decided  conservative  by  nature  and 
conviction.  She  held  advanced  ideas,  it  is  true,  and  some  of 
the  most  ultra  kind,  but  the  general  tenor  of  her  mind  was 
towards  the  old  and  the  stable.  She  was  no  revolutionist  or 
iconoclast,  and  had  no  desire  to  have  the  good  old  order  of 
things  set  aside  in  favor  of  any  fresh  theories  of  the  present 
day.  In  the  early  days  of  her  independent  thinking  she  wrote 
to  Miss  Sara  Hennell,  the  friend  with  whom  she  spoke  most 
freely  on  these  subjects,  of  the  tendency  of  her  mind  to  ven¬ 
erate  whatever  had  entered  deeply  into  the  life  of  mankind : 
“  I  have  a  growing  conviction  that  we  may  measure  true  moral 
and  intellectual  culture  by  the  comprehension  and  veneration 
given  to  all  forms  of  thought  and  feeling  which  have  influenced 
large  masses  of  mankind  —  and  of  all  intolerance  the  intoler¬ 
ance  calling  itself  philosophical  is  the  most  odious  to  me.” 
The  same  tendency  of  mind  expressed  itself  again  and  again 
in  her  letters,  for  she  felt  that  nothing  was  to  be  gained  by 
the  spirit  of  destruction.  As  in  regard  to  religious  beliefs,  so 
in  politics,  her  sympathies  were  on  the  side  of  stability  and 
order.  She  rejoiced  in  the  conservative  reaction  which  fol¬ 
lowed  the  extension  of  suffrage.  “I  wish,”  she  wrote  of  one 
movement  of  this  kind,  “  there  were  some  solid,  philosophical 
Conservative  to  take  the  reins  —  one  who  knows  the  true  func¬ 
tions  of  stability  in  human  affairs.”  Her  distrust  of  the  ballot 
was  very  strong,  and  she  could  not  conceal  her  contempt  for  it 
as  a  means  of  righting  the  wrongs  of  the  world.  To  one  who 
had  written  against  the  ballot  she  said,  “  It  has  been  a  source 
of  amazement  to  me  that  men  acquainted  with  practical  life 
can  believe  in  the  suppression  of  bribery  by  the  ballot,  as  if 
bribery  in  all  its  Protean  forms  could  ever  disappear  by  means 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT, 


481 


a  single  external  arrangement.  They  might  as  well  say  that 
our  female  vanity  would  disappear  at  an  order  that  women 
should  wear  felt  hats  and  cloth  dresses.”  Concerning  the  con 
servative  reaction  of  1873,  she  wrote :  “I,  who  am  no  believer 
in  salvation  by  the  ballot,  am  rather  tickled  that  the  first  ex¬ 
periment  with  it  has  turned  against  its  adherents.” 

This  conservative  attitude  gave  form  and  direction  to  all 
her  theories  of  human  society.  Her  mind  was  open  to  new 
ideas  and  to  belief  in  the  growth  of  the  social  relations ;  but 
she  was  cautious  in  advancing  anything  that  was  revolutionary 
in  its  nature.  Hot  believing  in  the  ballot  for  men,  she  did  net 
covet  it  for  women.  The  rights  she  most  desired  for  women 
were  those  of  being  womanly  in  the  largest  sense,  and  of 
having  those  opportunities  for  culture  which  would  best  fit 
them  for  the  duties  of  life.  Her  interest  in  the  education 
of  women  was  keen  and  full  of  purpose  to  help  others.  To 
a  leader  of  the  woman’s  rights  movement  in  England  she 
wrote :  “  I  do  sympathize  with  you  most  emphatically  in  the 
desire  to  see  women  socially  elevated  —  educated  equally  with 
men,  and  secured  as  far  as  possible,  along  with  every  other 
breathing  creature,  from  suffering  the  exercise  of  an  unrighteous 
power.  That  is  a  broader  ground  of  sympathy  than  agreement 
as  to  the  amount  and  kind  of  result  that  may  be  hoped  for 
from  a  particular  measure.  But  on  this  special  point  I  am 
far  from  thinking  myself  an  oracle,  and  on  the  whole  I  am 
inclined  to  hope  for  much  good  from  the  serious  presentation 
of  woman’s  claims  before  Parliament.”  She  was  greatly  inter¬ 
ested  in  all  the  efforts  made  to  gain  a  better  education  for 
women,  and  to  this  work  she  gave  all  the  sympathies  of  her 
mind  and  heart.  She  felt  that  it  is  a  broad  and  generous 
education  women  need,  far  more  than  the  ballot.  She  even 
had  a  desire  to  associate  herself  in  some  intimate  way  with 
work  of  this  kind.  “  In  her  view,”  says  Mr.  Cross,  “the  family 
life  holds  the  roots  of  all  that  is  best  in  our  mortal  lot ;  and 
she  always  felt  that  it  is  far  too  ruthlessly  sacrificed  in  the 
case  of  English  men  by  their  public  school  and  university 
education,  and  that  much  more  is  such  a  result  to  be  depre- 
oated  in  the  case  of  women.  But  the  absolute  good  being 

VOL.  XV.  SI 


482 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

unattainable  in  our  mixed  condition  of  things,  those  women 
especially  who  are  obliged  to  earn  their  own  living  must  do 
their  best  with  the  opportunities  at  their  command,  as  ‘  they 
cannot  live  with  posterity/  when  a  more  perfect  system  may 
prevail.  Therefore,  George  Eliot  wished  God  speed  to  the 
women’s  colleges.  It  was  often  in  her  mind  and  on  her  lips 
that  the  only  worthy  end  of  all  learning,  of  all  science,  of  all 
life,  in  fact,  is,  that  human  beings  should  love  one  another 
better.  Culture  merely  for  culture’s  sake  can  never  be  any¬ 
thing  but  a  sapless  root,  capable  of  producing  at  best  a  shrivelled 
branch.  I  his  attitude  of  cautious  radicalism  was  characteris¬ 
tic  of  her  in  every  phase  of  her  life  and  thought.  She  believed 
in  culture,  science,  philosophy,  art,  and  all  that  enters  most 
largely  and  deeply  into  human  life,  to  lift  it  above  the  drudgery 
of  the  day ;  but  she  valued  it  all  in  exact  proportion  to  its 

power  of  helping  men  and  women  to  more  of  life  and  a  purer 
satisfaction  in  it. 

As  she  was  not  a  radical  in  the  most  advanced  sense,  so  she 
was  not  an  optimist.  The  painful  elements  of  human  existence 
were  very  prominent  to  her  thought,  and  her  mind  often  dwelt 
on  them.  The  good  of  life  seemed  to  her  to  be  small,  and 
most  of  it  lay  in  the  direction  of  the  service  men  can  render  to 
each  other  by  their  sympathy  and  helpfulness.  She  invented 
the  word  “Meliorist”  to  express  her  own  attitude  towards  the 
gradual  development  which  the  world  is  making.  The  evil  of 
the  world  weighed  painfully  upon  her,  and  she  felt  the  con¬ 
stant  burden  of  it;  but  she  felt  that  it  would  gradually  lessen 
through  the  creation  of  a  human  providence  in  the  enlarged 
sympathies  of  men.  The  sense  of  the  practical  evils  of  life 
was  always  strong  upon  her,  and  weighed  down  and  oppressed 
her  heart.  This  feeling  entered  into  her  life,  along  with  her 
natural  despondency,  to  give  a  color  of  sadness  and  grief  to  all 
her  thoughts  of  the  world.  Something  of  the  old  ascetic  con¬ 
ception  of  the  dark  and  painful  side  of  human  experience  there 
was  undoubtedly  in  all  her  feelings  about  life,  as  well  as  in  her 
thoughts  of  it.  The  sense  of  death  was  constantly  present  to 
her  mind,  and  it  was  a  shadow,  not  by  any  means  of  hurting, 
which  ever  hung  over  the  sunshine  of  her  life. 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT 


483 


c$he  thoroughly  believed  in  the  sympathetic  good  there  is  in 
life,  and  she  was  anxious  to  increase  the  sum  of  it  by  every 
effort  of  her  own.  In  the  growth  of  the  good  she  heartily  had 
faith,  but  it  was  to  be  wholly  by  the  efforts  of  men.  In  tne 
times  to  come  she  thought  men  would  care  more  for  the  de¬ 
velopment  of  the  humanitarian  spirit  than  they  do  now,  and 
that  a  wide-reaching  sympathy  and  helpfulness  for  the  human 
race  would  be  awakened,  that  would  lift  mankind  to  a  higher 
form  of  life.  This  coming  good  of  the  race  was  to  her  an 
article  of  the  sincerest  faith,  and  she  looked  forward  to  that 
good  in  all  her  thoughts  about  mankind.  In  her  belief  the 
good  is  never  wholly  to  blot  out  the  evil  and  the  painful,  but 
it  can  reduce  wrong  to  the  lowest  terms,  and  make  the  pain¬ 
ful  capable  of  being  borne  with  patience.  This  mitigation  of 
human  suffering  was  all  she  hoped  for,  and  all  she  felt  men 
needed. 

The  conservative  bent  of  her  mind  may  be  seen  in  her 
attitude  towards  the  scientific  teachings  of  her  time.  More 
thoroughly  than  any  other  author  she  has  incorporated  the 
scientific  ideas  of  the  last  thirty  years  in  her  books ;  but  her 
tendency  of  mind  was  not  towards  an  extreme  view  of  the  worth 
of  science.  She  did  not  care  for  speculation  as  speculation,  and 
however  good  scientific  theories  might  be,  they  had  little  weight 
with  her  unless  they  were  founded  on  a  solid  basis  of  truth, 
and  carried  some  force  for  the  poetry  and  hope  of  mankind. 
It  was  not  her  habit  to  seek  the  guidance  of  speculative  science 
in  regard  to  the  moral  and  altruistic  duties  of  life,  and  this 
fact  she  has  expressed  in  one  of  the  most  suggestive  of  her 
letters :  “  As  to  the  necessary  combinations  through  which  life 
is  manifested,  and  which  seem  to  present  themselves  to  you  as 
a  hideous  fatalism,  which  ought  logically  to  petrify  your  voli¬ 
tion,  have  they,  in  fact,  any  such  influence  on  your  ordinary 
course  of  action  in  the  primary  affairs  of  your  existence  as  a 
human,  social,  domestic  creature  ?  And  if  they  don’t  hinder 
you  from  taking  measures  for  a  bath,  without  which  you  know 
that  you  cannot  secure  the  delicate  cleanliness  which  is  your 
second  nature,  why  should  they  hinder  you  from  a  line  of 
resolve  in  a  higher  strain  of  duty  to  your  ideal,  both  for  your 


484 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

self  and  others  ?  But  the  consideration  of  molecular  physiol 
is  not  the  direct  ground  of  human  love  and  moral  action  any 
more  than  it  is  the  direct  means  of  composing  a  noble  picture 
or  of  enjoying  fine  music.  One  might  as  well  hope  to  dissect 
one’s  own  body,  and  be  merry  in  doing  it,  as  take  molecular 
physics  (in  which  you  must  banish  from  your  field  what  is 
specifically  human)  to  be  your  dominant  guide,  your  deter¬ 
miner  of  motives,  in  what  is  solely  human.  That  every  study 
has  its  bearing  on  every  other  is  true  ;  but  pain  and  relief,  love 
and  sorrow,  have  their  peculiar  history,  which  make  an  experi¬ 
ence  and  knowledge  over  and  above  the  swing  of  atoms.” 

These  words  sufficiently  indicate  her  rejection  of  the  facts 
and  laws  of  the  physical  world  as  the  guides  to  moral  conduct, 
or  as  having  a  determining  influence  on  our  conceptions  of 
human  life.  They  ought  to  be  placed  by  the  side  of  the  words 
written  to  the  same  friend  a  few  months  later,  in  which  she 
gave  utterance  to  her  views  about  the  emotional  life  in  man. 
It  is  not  science,  but  poetry  in  its  widest  sense,  which  has  a 
commanding  influence  in  guiding  and  shaping  the  higher  life 
in  man.  “  Consider  what  the  human  mind  en  masse  would 
have  been,”  she  says,  “  if  there  had  been  no  such  combination 
of  elements  in  it  as  has  produced  poets.  All  the  philosophers 
and  savants  would  not  have  sufficed  to  supply  the  deficiency. 
And  how  can  the  life  of  nations  be  understood  without  the 
inward  light  of  poetry  — that  is,  of  emotion  blended  with 
thought?”  All  that  touches  and  affects  the  emotional  life 
made  its  deep  impression  on  her  mind.  She  felt  that  the  mys¬ 
tery  of  existence  is  quite  beyond  any  little  range  of  facts  about 
the  universe  man  has  yet  discovered,  and  is  far  more  important 
in  its  effect  on  human  existence.  This  is  to  be  noted  in  regard 
to  the  words  she  wrote  when  Darwin’s  “  Origin  of  Species  ” 
was  first  published:  “But  to  me  the  Development  Theory, 
and  all  other  explanations  of  processes  by  which  things  came 
to  be,  produce  a  feeble  impression  compared  with  the  mystery 
that  lies  under  the  processes.”  This  recognition  of  the  great 
mystery  of  being  gave  her  the  truest  element  of  poetry,  and 
helped  her  to  a  devout  and  a  profoundly  reverent  attitude  of 
mind 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


485 


She  found  in  Comte  a  thinker  who  satisfied  her  love  of 
mystery  and  poetry,  but  who  also  gave  her  a  theory  of  the 
world  which  satisfied  her  love  of  science.  She  said  of  him  in 
1867  :  “  My  gratitude  increases  continually  for  the  illumina¬ 
tion  Comte  has  contributed  to  my  life.”  She  was  a  constant 
reader  of  his  books,  and  her  faith  in  him  grew  with  acquaint¬ 
ance.  “ For  all  Comte’s  writing,”  says  Mr.  Cross,  “she  had  a 
feeling  of  high  admiration,  intense  interest,  and  very  deep 
sympathy.  I  do  not  think  I  ever  heard  her  speak  of  any 
writer  with  a  more  grateful  sense  of  obligation  for  enlighten¬ 
ment.”  And  yet  her  acceptance  of  him  was  of  a  modified 
kind,  for  she  did  not  embrace  all  his  theories,  or  follow  him 
as  a  disciple.  His  religious  teachings  did  not  by  any  means 
satisfy  her ;  and  it  was  perhaps  only  in  the  direction  of  his 
altruism  that  she  was  thoroughly  in  sympathy  with  him. 

In  approaching  the  subject  of  her  religious  beliefs,  it  is  to 
be  remembered  that  she  was  not  a  rationalist  in  the  usual 
sense,  for  she  refused  to  think  that  men  are  to  be  guided  by 
the  conclusions  of  reason  alone.  According  to  her  view  much 
of  what  men  believe  is  determined  by  the  emotions,  and  in 
feeling  she  found  the  truest  guide  to  the  relations  of  men  to 
each  other.  In  her  youth  she  made  a  statement  of  her  belief 
that  nothing  is  to  be  gained  by  an  attempt  to  draw  men  to¬ 
gether  on  the  grounds  of  a  uniformity  of  opinion ;  and  to  that 
conviction  she  held  through  her  life:  “Agreement  between 
intellects  seems  unattainable,  and  we  turn  to  the  truth  of  feed¬ 
ing  as  the  only  universal  bond  of  union.”  Later  on  in  life, 
after  she  had  found  how  the  world  deals  with  those  who  break 
its  conventional  requirements,  she  wrote  to  Charles  Bray  in 
a  spirit  of  toleration  learned  by  the  bitterest  experience  :  “  I 
have  had  heart-cutting  experience  that  opinions  are  a  poor 
cement  between  human  souls :  and  the  only  effect  I  ardently 
long  to  produce  by  my  writings  is,  that  those  who  read  them 
should  be  better  able  to  imagine  and  to  feel  the  pains  and  the 
joys  of  those  who  differ  from  themselves  in  everything  but  the 
broad  fact  of  being  struggling,  erring,  human  creatures.”  She 
gave  the  emotional  life  a  significance  which  is  not  usual,  and  it 
had  much  to  do  in  determining  her  intellectual  theories. 


*  D  A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

She  was  little  concerned  about  beliefs,  but  much  about  com¬ 
mon  feelings  and  sympathies.  The  spirit  of  love  was  what 
she  cared  for,  and  the  capacity  to  feel  with  and  for  others. 
The  range  of  her  sympathies  was  very  great,  and  she  did  not 
count  the  intellectual  harmony  to  be  attained,  as  of  much 
ifalue  compared  with  the  possibility  of  a  unity  of  feeling, 
lhat  was  what  she  aimed  at  in  her  own  life,  and  what  she 
strove  to  inculcate  in  her  books.  As  a  result,  her  religion 
was  one  of  toleration  and  humanity,  and  not  one  of  creeds  in 
<*ny  sense.  It  was  the  emotional  and  imaginative  elements 
in  all  religion  which  appealed  to  her,  and  it  was  for  the  sake 
of  these  she  had  faith  in  its  great  teachings.  “  What  pitiable 
people  those  are,  she  exclaimed,  ‘kwho  feel  j~o  poetry  in 
Christianity !  Surely  the  acme  of  poetry  hitherto  is  the  con¬ 
ception  of  the  suffering  Messiah,  and  the  final  triumph,  ‘  He 
shall  reign  forever  and  forever.5”  In  thus . speaking  of  the 
emotional  side  of  Christianity  she  by  no  means  wished  to  con- 
vey  the  idea  that  she  also  accepted  its  intellectual  conclusions, 
for  she  did  not.  Any  religion  was  of  value  to  her  in  propor¬ 
tion  to  its  power  of  giving  adequate  outlet  to  the  emotions, 
and  as  it  was  able  through  its  symbolism  to  satisfy  the  soul’s 
ciaving  for  outwaid  expression.  In  fact,  to  her,  religion  was 
ciue  subjectively  simply  as  a  means  of  voicing  the  inward 
life.  I  he  speculative  part  of  religion  she  did  not  believe  in, 
and  it  was  only  the  humanitarian  and  the  emotional  side  of 
it  which  interested  her.  Writing  to  a  correspondent  who 
wished  that  men  might  be  of  one  mind  in  the  love  of  the 
good,  she  said:  u I  think  it  would  be  possible  that  men  should 
cl i fife i  speculatively  as  much  as  they  do  now,  and  yet  be  of  one 
mind  in  the  desire  to  avoid  giving  unnecessary  pain,  in  the 
desire  to  do  an  honest  part  towards  the  general  well-being, 
which  has  made  a  comfortable  nidus  for  themselves,  in  the 
resolve  not  to  sacrifice  another  to  their  own  egoistic  prompt- 
uigs.  1  ity  and  fairness — -two  little  words  which,  carried  out, 
would  embrace  the  utmost  delicacies  of  the  moral  life  — seem 
to  me  not  to  rest  on  an  unverifiable  hypothesis,  but  on  facts 
quite  as  irreversible  as  the  perception  that  a  pyramid  will  not 
stand  on  its  apex.” 


A  LIFE  OF  GEOKGE  ELIOT. 


487 


To  the  same  correspondent  she  protested  against  taking  the 
tvord  of  physical  science  as  decisive  in  regard  to  any  of  the 
great  facts  of  religion,  for  she  held  that  the  theories  of  any 
man  of  science  are  but  mere  speculations  compared  with  the 
great  body  of  emotional  results  obtained  by  the  long  experi¬ 
ence  of  mankind.  “  I  should  urge  you  to  consider  your  early 
religious  experience  as  a  portion  of  valid  knowledge,  and  to 
cherish  its  emotional  results  in  relation  to  objects  and  ideas 
which  are  either  substitutes  or  metamorphoses  of  the  earlier. 
And  I  think  we  must  not  take  every  great  physicist — or  other 
ist  —  for  an  apostle,  but  be  ready  to  suspect  him  of  some  cru¬ 
dity,  concerning  relations  that  lie  outside  his  special  studies, 
if  his  exposition  strands  us  on  results  that  seem  to  stultify 
the  most  ardent,  massive  experience  of  mankind,  and  hem 
up  the  best  part  of  our  feelings  in  stagnation.”  This  regard 
for  the  emotional  life,  which  is  so  important  an  element  in  all 
religion,  gives  the  keynote  t6  her  theories  on  the  subject. 

In  the  emotions  she  found  the  sanctions  for  religion.  “  There 
is  really  no  moral  i  sanction ’  but  this  inward  impulse,”  she 
said.  “  The  will  of  God  is  the  same  thing  as  the  will  of  other 
men,  compelling  us  to  work,  and  avoid  what  they  have  seen 
to  be  harmful  to  social  existence.  Disjoined  from  any  per¬ 
ceived  good,  the  divine  will  is  simply  so  much  as  we  have 
ascertained  of  the  facts  of  existence  which  compel  obedience 
at  our  peril.  Any  other  notion  comes  from  the  supposition  of 
arbitrary  revelation.”  She  was  not  willing  to  entertain  the 
idea  of  a  personal  God  but,  at  the  same  time,  she  was  not 
willing  wholly  to  reject  it.  It  was  the  human  element  in  the 
conception  of  God  for  which  she  cared,  and  she  held  that  this 
was  wholly  the  result  of  our  experience  of  what  men  are,  and 
what  they  are  willing  to  do  in  helping  each  other.  “  The  idea 
of  God,”  she  said,  “  so  far  as  it  has  been  a  high  spiritual  in¬ 
fluence,  is  the  ideal  of  a  goodness  entirely  human  (that  is, 
an  exaltation  of  the  human).”  The  goodness  which  we  see 
among  men,  enthroned  over  the  universe,  becomes  our  God. 
She  took  her  conception  of  God  from  the  noblest  features  of 
man’s  moral  conduct,  and  not  from  the  beauty  and  grandeur 
of  the  universe,  for  she  was  no  Pantheist.  “  I  do  not  find  my 


488  A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

temple  in  Pantheism,”  she  wrote  to  Mrs.  Stowe,  “which,  what, 
ever  might  be  its  value  speculatively,  could  not  yield  a  practi¬ 
cal  religion,  since  it  is  an  attempt  to  look  at  the  universe  from 
the  outside  of  our  relations  to  it  (the  universe^  as  human 
beings.  As  healthy,  sane  human  beings,  we  must  love  and 
hate  — love  what  is  good  for  mankind,  hate  what  is  evil  for 
mankind.  For  years  of  my  youth  I  dwelt  in  dreams  of  a 
pantheistic  sort,  falsely  supposing  that  I  was  enlarging  my 
sympathy.  But  I  have  travelled  far  away  from  that.”  If  she 
had  left  Pantheism,  however,  she  had  not  gained  a  more  dis¬ 
tinct  and  positive  idea  of  God.  Mr.  Frederic  Myers  has  given 
an  account  of  a  conversation  with  her,  in  which  this  subject 
came  up  for  discussion:  “I  remember  how,  at  Cambridge,  I 
walked  with  her  once  in  the  Fellows’  Garden  of  Trinity,  on 
an  evening  of  rainy  May ;  and  she,  stirred  somewhat  beyond 
her  wont,  and  taking  as  her  text  the  three  words  which  have 

been  used  so  often  as  the  inspiring  trumpet-calls  of  man, _ 

the  words  God,  Immortality,  Duty,-—  pronounced,  with  terrible 
emphasis,  how  inconceivable  was  the  first,  how  unbelievable 
the  second,  and  yet  how  peremptory  and  absolute  the  third. 
Never,  perhaps,  have  sterner  accents  affirmed  the  sovereignty 
of  impersonal  and  unrecompensed  law.  I  listened,  and  night 
fell  j  hei  grave,  majestic  countenance  turned  towards  me  like 
a  sibyl’s  in  the  gloom ;  it  was  as  though  she  withdrew  from 
my  grasp,  one  by  one,  the  two  scrolls  of  promise,  and  left  me 
the  third  scroll  only,  awful  with  inevitable  fates.”  This 
picture  is  a  little  too  highly  wrought  to  be  strictly  accurate, 
and  yet  it  gives  a  fairly  good  idea  of  George  Eliot’s  attitude 
towards  the  conception  of  God.  The  moral  sanctions  for  her 
did  not  grow  out  of  that  belief,  and  she  did  not  find  it  essen- 
tial  for  any  of  the  higher  purposes  of  life. 

Especially  was  it  her  idea  that  we  are  to  resist  the  mere 
comfort  of  faith  in  a  personal  God.  We  should  endure  all 
things  for  the  truth’s  sake,  and  accept  the  truth  because  it  is 
the  truth.  She  would  not  entertain  any  symbolism  for  the 
things  of  the  higher  life,  because  any  and  all  are  inadequate, 

**  As  for  the  forms  and  ceremonies,”  she  wrote  to  one  who  >tj. 
quired  about  them,  « J  fee)  no  regret  that  any  should  turn  to 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  rXIOT. 


489 


them  for  comfort  if  they  can  find  comfort  in  them;  sympa¬ 
thetically  I  enjoy  them  myself.  But  I  have  faith  in  the  work¬ 
ing  out  of  higher  possibilities  than  the  Catholic  or  any  other 
Church  has  presented ;  and  those  who  have  strength  to  wait 
and  endure  are  bound  to  accept  no  formula  which  their  whole 
souls  —  their  intellect  as  well  as  their  emotions  —  do  not  em¬ 
brace  with  entire  reverence.  The  highest  calling  and  election 
is  to  do  without  opium,  and  live  through  all  our  pain  with 
conscious,  clear-eyed  endurance.”  It  was  not  hardness  of 
heart  or  illiberality  of  intellect  which  made  her  decline  the 
“  opium,”  but  the  desire  to  reach  that  which  is  in  itself  good 
and  enduring.  Emotionally  she  was  quite  in  sympathy  with 
all  that  was  noble  and  pure  in  the  religion  accepted  about  her ; 
but  she  had  the  martyr’s  anxiety  to  testify  to  what  is  the  ex¬ 
act  truth,  which  was,  in  this  instance,  not  a  creed,  but  the  wish 
to  get  outside  of  all  creeds,  and  to  find  that  which  is  solid 
ground  for  the  relations  of  men  to  each  other.  She  read  the 
Bible  with  delight  and  with  reverence,  and  even  such  a  book 
as  the  “  Imitation  of  Christ  ”  was  her  daily  companion.  She 
gave  them  an  interpretation  of  her  own,  but  it  was  one  which 
sought  the  spirit  and  not  the  letter  of  their  teaching.  The 
elevation  of  humanity  was  what  she  sought  for  as  the  meaning 
of  all  religion.  “Will  you  not  agree  with  me,”  she  wrote  to 
Mrs.  Stowe,  “  that  there  is  one  comprehensive  Church  whose 
fellowship  consists  in  the  desire  to  purify  and  ennoble  human 
life,  and  where  the  best  members  of  all  narrower  churches  may 
call  themselves  brother  and  sister  in  spite  of  differences?” 
To  much  the  same  effect  were  the  words  she  wrote  to  Mr. 
Cross,  in  regard  to  conforming  to  the  religious  customs  of  the 
world  about  us  :  “All  the  great  religions  of  the  world,  histori¬ 
cally  considered,  are  rightly  the  objects  of  deep  reverence  and 
sympathy  —  they  are  the  record  of  spiritual  struggles  which 
are  the  types  of  our  own.  This  is  to  me  pre-eminently  true  of 
Hebrewism  and  Christianity,  on  which  my  own  3^011^  was 
nourished.  And  in  this  sense  I  have  no  antagonism  to- 

o 

wards  any  religious  belief,  but  a  strong  outflow  of  sympathy, 
Every  community  met  to  worship  the  highest  Good  (which  is 
understood  to  be  expressed  by  God)  carries  me  along  in  its 


490 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT, 

main  current;  and  if  there  were  not  reasons  against  my  foL 
lowing  such  an  inclination,  I  should  go  to  church  or  chapel 
constantly  for  the  sake  of  the  delightful  emotions  of  fellow¬ 
ship  which  come  over  me  in  religious  assemblies — the  very 
nature  of  such  assemblies  being  the  recognition  of  a  binding 
belief,  or  spiritual  law,  which  is  to  lift  us  into  willing  obedience 
and  save  us  from  the  slavery  of  unregulated  passion  or  im¬ 
pulse.”  The  reasons  restraining  her  from  church  attendance 
were  probably  those  growing  out  of  the  fear  of  appearing  to 
believe  what  she  did  not  believe.  There  would  have  been  the 
conclusion  arrived  at,  had  she  gone  to  church,  that  she  was  a 
believer  in  the  creed  of  the  church  she  attended,  and  that  it 
gave  full  satisfaction  to  her  religious  aspirations. 

George  Eliot’s  religion  can  be  summed  up  very  briefly :  it 
wac^aith  in  humanity.  The  past  of  the  race,  she  thought,  was 
the  source  of  the  beliefs  we  entertain,  and  that  it  has  made 
for  us  the  life  which  we  are  living  to-day.  Our  great  and  all-suf¬ 
ficient  duty  in  the  present  is  to  live  for  our  fellows.  Our  im¬ 
mortality  in  the  future  is  to  be  found  in  the  good  which  we 
can  do  that  will  help  the  race  onward  to  a  nobler  life.  She 
carried  the  altruistic  faith  to  its  highest  expression,  stripped 
it  of  all  association  with  older  faiths,  and  gave  it  a  grand  state¬ 
ment  in  her  novels  and  poems.  What  others  have  found  of 
comfort,  hope,  and  inspiration  in  the  love  of  God  she  found  so 
far  as  it  can  be  found  in  the  love  of  man.  That  faith  cheered 
her,  it  gave  inspiration  to  her  books,  and  it  made  her  of  a  wor¬ 
shipping  spirit  in  every  act  of  life. 

She  accepted  the  scientific  theory,  the  outcome  of  the  doc¬ 
trine  of  development,  that  all  man’s  ideas  and  feelings  are  an 
inheritance  from  the  life  that  he  has  lived  in  the  past.  This 
idea  controlled  her  conception  of  immortality.  She  did  not 
believe  in  a  personal  existence  in  the  future ;  at  least,  she  put 
that  belief  aside  from  her  mind  as  not  being  one  to  control  the 
actions  of  life.  As  man  has  inherited  the  past,  so  does  he  help 
to  make  the  future.  She  did  believe,  therefore,  in  a  subjective 
immortality,  or  an  immortality  in  the  race.  This  is  the  inspi¬ 
ration  of  the  poem,  a  Oh,  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible.”  She 
seems  to  have  taken  much  satisfaction  in  this  belief,  and  to 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


491 


have  found  in  it  the  highest  comfort.  It  was  in  harmony  with 
her  altruism  and  her  enthusiasm  for  humanity. 

Having  considered  George  Eliot  as  a  moral  teacher,  some 
word  ought  to  be  said  of  her  as  an  artist.  In  this  direction 
the  purpose  which  guided  her  was  that  of  truthfulness.  After 
“  Adam  Bede  ”  was  published  she  wrote  to  Blackwood :  “  Truth 
in  art  is  so  startling  that  no  one  can  believe  in  it  as  art,  and 
the  specific  forms  of  religious  life  which  have  made  some  of 
the  grandest  elements  in  human  history  are  looked  down  upon 
as  if  they  were  not  within  the  artist’s  sympathy  and  veneration 
and  intensely  dramatic  reproduction.”  Some  years  later  she 
expressed  to  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison  her  high  sense  of  the  worth 
of  the  beautiful  as  presented  in  art :  “  I  think  aesthetic  teach¬ 
ing  is  the  highest  of  all  teaching,  because  it  deals  with  life  in 
its  highest  complexity.  But  if  it  ceases  to  be  purely  aesthetic 

if  it  lapses  anywhere  from  the  picture  to  the  diagram  it 
becomes  the  most  offensive  of  all  teaching.”  She  wished  to  be 
an  aesthetic  and  not  a  doctrinal  teacher  ;  and  this  desire  she  ex¬ 
pressed  to  one  who  sought  to  obtain  her  influence  on  the  side 
of  the  practical  reforms  of  the  day  :  “  I  thought  that  you  un¬ 
derstood  that  I  have  grave  reasons  for  not  speaking  on  certain 
public  topics.  No  request  from  the  best  friend  in  the  world—- 
even  from  my  own  husband  —  ought  to  induce  me  to  speak 
when  I  judge  it  my  duty  to  be  silent.  If  I  had  taken  a  con¬ 
trary  decision,  I  should  not  have  remained  silent  till  now.  My 
function  is  that  of  the  cesthetic,  not  the  doctrinal  teacher — the 
rousing  of  the  noble  emotions,  which  make  mankind  desire  the 
social  right,  not  the  prescribing  of  special  measures,  concerning 
which  the  artistic  mind,  however  strongly  moved  by  social 
sympathy,  is  often  not  the  best  judge.” 

These  words  ought  not  to  react  to  the  conclusion  that  George 
Eliot  was  merely  an  artist,  and  that  she  did  not  care  for  the 
moral  results  of  her  wor*..  uu  one  other  hand,  nothing  is 
plainer  than  that  she  deliberately  and  persistently  aimed  at 
being  a  moral  teacher,  and  at  producing  certain  results  on  the 
lives  of  the  readers  of  her  books.  She  chose,  however,  to  do 
this  through  the  emotions,  and  not  by  attempting  to  teach 
those  doctrinal  conclusions  about  life  which  would  lead  to  a 


492 


A  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


special  form  of  conduct.  She  was  an  artist  because  aiming  at 
those  emotional  effects  which  are  the  truest  helps  to  the  life  of 
mankind. 

As  a  writer  of  novels  her  name  deserves  to  stand  among  the 
highest,  both  as  a  story-teller  and  as  a  creator  of  character. 
Her  books  sometimes  seem  to  be  too  much  cumbered  with 
learning  and  with  the  moral  teaching  she  put  into  them  ;  but, 
on  the  whole,  they  are  interesting  throughout  and  full  of  charm. 
She  had  the  gift  of  laughter  and  of  pathos  in  about  equal  meas¬ 
ure,  and  she  mingled  smiles  and  tears  as  they  are  mingled  in 
life.  She  made  her  characters  clear-cut  and  living,  with  a 
strong  and  insistent  personality  of  their  own. 

Her  books  are  all  inspired  with  her  love  of  mankind,  and  by 
her  desire  to  make  life  brighter  and  purer.  The  love  of  her 
fellows  waa  a  continual  joy  and  inspiration  to  her,  and  it  is 
shown  in  the  way  in  which  she  deals  with  the  defects  and  the  as¬ 
pirations  of  her  characters.  She  yearned  with  a  great  longing 
for  the  good  and  the  growth  of  the  human  race,  and  that  desire 
infused  itself  into  her  pages  to  give  them  purpose  and  inspira¬ 
tion.  Of  her  it  could  truly  be  said  that  she  was  one  who  loved 
her  fellow-men,  and  that  she  lived  to  make  the  doing  of  good 
easier  to  all  who  came  after  her. 


sw/9*  isnnr* 


